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## SEASON OF THE WITCH

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Shadowlines:

Book One

by

L.J.K. Oliva

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To J.S.

_I'm losing count of how many ledges you've talked me down from. I love you so hard._

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By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes...

\- _Macbeth:_ Act IV, Scene I, William Shakespeare

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# Before

Forest Hill, San Francisco

A few days ago...

#

Of all the nights to be running late.

Georgia gave the dark interior of Cross Your Teas one last, sweeping glance, and hurried to the door. Lena was really going to owe her this time. She stepped outside, hissed as the freezing San Francisco night cut through her jeans and motorcycle jacket.

Georgia tucked her helmet under her arm and fished the shop keys from her jacket pocket. She set on the lock a little more viciously than was strictly necessary. "Occult superhero, my ass," she muttered. "'You're so awesome, Georgia. Please lock up my shop while I head to the coast for a weekend of cosmic sex.'" She blew out a breath. "Lucky bitch."

She finished locking the door and jammed the keys back into her pocket, in the same motion fished out her battered cell phone and checked the time.

Shit.

She was really running late now. Maybe she should just call it a night. The ceremony would be mostly over by the time she arrived.

By the time she finished the thought, she was already swinging a leg over her Honda Valkyrie. No way in hell was she going to miss tonight's Esbat. It wasn't often her coven held them under a new moon, and she had a few projects that could do with some blessing.

Georgia tucked her long hair down the back collar of her jacket and pulled the zipper to her chin. She tugged her helmet over her head, reached behind her and retrieved her gloves from the saddlebag. Finally, she started the engine. It surged to life between her legs, and the Valk's throaty growl rumbled the length of the park.

Georgia couldn't contain her grin. That never got old.

She kicked up the kickstand and eased the bike away from the curb. At the last minute, she reached up and touched the power button on the side of her helmet. Music streamed over the bluetooth from her phone. _Heavy/Like a Witch_ , by All Them Witches. Her own personal power anthem.

Georgia grinned again. After a purely gratuitous rev of the engine, she was off.

Market Street would have been the straightest route, but she knew better than to think it would be the quickest. A couple turns, and the freeway on-ramp loomed in front of her. Georgia wove around the few cars already climbing it, and opened up the throttle.

The Valkyrie roared with delight. Georgia tightened her grip on the handlebars and savored the rush of wind around her, the grin now firmly fixed on her face. She sailed along the mostly-empty freeway, the orange and neon lights of the city a blur in her peripheral vision. God, she loved the city at night. Well, anytime, really, but there was something about it at night. Some special kind of magic.

Her exit came up quickly. Georgia leaned into it, and a last glimpse of the freeway flashed in her rearview mirror. A tight patchwork of lights blanketed the rolling hills in the distance. She bit back a sigh, silently promised herself a long, leisurely ride sometime soon. Buoyed by the thought, she left the open road behind.

This part of town always threw her. It was as close to suburbia as a major city could get. Georgia eased back on the engine and fell into the gentler pattern of the traffic. A new song filtered through the helmet's speakers: _The Death of Coyote Woman_. More All Them Witches. Apparently her phone's shuffle had settled on a theme for the night.

Georgia reached up and ticked the volume higher.

Several more turns and a roundabout later, she motored up the main road to Forest Hill. Warm lights glowed from the windows of stately Tudor-esque lodges, from Provençal cottages and Italianate villas. Dark, bizarre shadows betrayed the presence of countless exotic flora.

Georgia humphed into her helmet. "Too rich for my blood."

Gradually the wide boulevard narrowed. Cypress and rangy bay trees crowded the pavement. The houses between them grew steadily smaller, as though cowed into submission. Georgia kept a light hand on the throttle, but the Valkyrie's engine still sounded too loud in the sleepy neighborhood. The occasional lit window glared at her accusingly. She winced.

Finally, the bike's headlight lit up the wooden breastwork at the dead end of the lane. Cars already filled the open space in front of the last house. Georgia muttered a curse and eased into the only empty spot she could find. She killed the engine and turned off her helmet, made sure the bike was steady on its kickstand before swinging off.

She didn't bother removing her gloves, instead shook her hair loose, tucked her helmet under her arm, and double-timed it to the house. It couldn't have been farther than a block, but the walk felt longer. The night was too quiet, and it wasn't just the eerie absence of city sounds. The end of the street sat on the edge of an open space preserve. There should have been rustling leaves, birds, other animal noises.

There was nothing.

Georgia resisted the urge to pull her jacket closer around her and instinctively looked up at the sky. A thick blanket of fog had already rolled in from the nearby coast, but even without it, the new moon wouldn't have been visible. Its absence pricked at her, yet another thing to set her off-balance.

She squared her shoulders. Magic. That was what she was experiencing. The Esbat had already started, after all. Of course the energy was more palpable, more concentrated than usual.

And she was missing it. Georgia trotted to the cast iron gate on the side of the house. It swung open without a sound. The stone pavers on the other side formed a straight line down to the back patio. Past it, out below the hill, a few lights from the Outer Sunset managed to twinkle through the fog.

Georgia began her descent, one hand on the solid wooden side of the house, taking the pavers two at a time. Three away from the bottom, she paused. Electricity fizzed over her skin. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

Silence.

She should have heard something by now. Anything. Even if the moon rite itself was over, her coven mates should still be on the cake and wine ceremony, or at least socializing. But the patio was quiet. Everything was quiet.

Maybe she'd misunderstood. Maybe there wasn't an Esbat tonight, after all, or maybe it had been cancelled. Georgia's chest wrenched. Would Mary Granch really call the night off without telling her?

She started to retreat back up the steps, paused again. Energy hung thick around her. It almost felt like it was beckoning to her, like there was something she was supposed to see.

Georgia pressed her lips together, whirled and jogged down the last three pavers. She rounded the corner of the house and kept going. At least, she _would_ have kept going. Before she could enter the patio, she tripped over something. She looked down.

An arm.

The sight didn't register right away. Georgia blinked stupidly. It was a man's arm, judging from the hand and the still-present shirt sleeve. It had been disarticulated at the shoulder—not neatly. Stringy bits of tendon and ligament clung to the point of separation.

A bloody trail led away from it. Georgia took a hesitant step forward, then another. The air seized in her chest. Her head grew light.

One, two, three, four... she stopped counting the bodies at four. There were more, though, draped over the expensive teak patio furniture, half-submerged in the ornate Basque-style fountain. Blood filled the water, drenched the pavestones, soaked the weatherproof paisley seat cushions. Three of the four patio lights had been knocked out. Broken glass glinted from the ground.

Georgia tried to breathe. Couldn't. Her helmet dropped to the ground. A strange sound filled the still air. Dimly, she realized it was coming from her. She tried to back up, but it was too late for that. Her legs buckled. She crumpled to her knees, straight into something wet. She looked down without thinking.

More blood.

She would have screamed if she'd had the air to do it. As it was, all she could manage was a long, high-pitched wheeze. Tears streamed down her cheeks, instantly turned icy against her skin. How many people were in her coven? Ten? Twelve? Roughly the same number of corpses now surrounded her.

They're all dead.

The police. She should call the police. Georgia clawed numbly at her jacket pocket, but the zipper was stuck. Or maybe her fingers just didn't work anymore. She tried to breathe again. Mistake. What should have been a calming rush of oxygen instead flooded her lungs with the same thick, metal-sweet flavor that choked the air.

"Okay. Okay." It was the only word she could remember, and she repeated it like a mantra. _Calm down. Get a grip. Georgia Clare doesn't have melt-downs. She doesn't freak out or hyperventilate. She certainly doesn't do all three simultaneously._ "Okay."

A crash sounded from inside the house. Georgia jerked. _Holy shit._ Her head pounded.

Whoever had slaughtered her coven was still there.

She rose to her feet as silently as she could. Normally she'd leap at the chance to inflict some pain of her own, but then, this wasn't a normal scenario. The house's interior was pitch black. Georgia's pulse pounded in her throat. What if it wasn't one mass murderer, but two? Three? Slowly, carefully, she started to back towards the stairs.

Something moved in the dark behind the bay window. Georgia froze. She bit her lip, forced her hands to stay still at her sides. Her legs quivered with the urge to run. She ignored it.

The darkness stilled again. Georgia shut her eyes and released a silent thank-you up to the sky. She opened her eyes again and took another step back.

The bay window exploded outward in a hail of shattered glass. Georgia shrieked, turned and fled towards the stairs. Her eyes burned with the overwhelming smell of sulphur. Something closed around her ankle. Before she could take more than a step, she crashed face-first onto the pavestones.

Pain catapulted her into fight mode. She kicked hard. The grip around her ankle loosened briefly, tightened again.

She felt around in front of her. Tiny slivers of broken glass coated her gloves. Georgia ignored them, kept searching until she found a large, jagged fragment from the window. Good. This was good. Her fingers closed around it. She twisted around and lashed blindly into the darkness.

A jarring, unearthly screech rewarded her. The sound condensed into a bolt that raced down her spine, and the hold on her ankle released. Georgia tried to stand. Her heavy boots skidded in a morass of blood and glass.

She gave up and scrambled forward on all fours. Whoever—or whatever—was behind her screeched again. What sounded like claws scraped against the pavestones.

Georgia didn't stop, didn't look back, didn't let go of her weapon _._ The first of the pavers was just ahead. If she could get to the narrow steps, there was a slim chance she might make it back to her Valkyrie.

A massive hand—paw? —came down hard on her shoulder. It dragged her up by the nape of the neck until she was suspended in midair. Georgia flailed wildly. Something cracked the side of her head, once, twice. Dazed, she felt the glass slip from her grasp.

Before she had a chance to register horror, she was airborne. The low concrete banister surrounding the patio abruptly ended her flight. Gasping, Georgia staggered to her feet, pain shooting through her side. Blood leaked from her nose.

A shadow moved towards her, stark against the cream-colored stones. Georgia could only stare, eyes wide, as it stepped into the faint light cast by the last remaining patio lamp. It was definitely not human. It almost looked like a dog, except that dogs didn't walk on two legs. Dogs couldn't grab you, couldn't throw you like this had done.

No, not a dog. Something else.

Georgia crouched against the banister, searched in vain for an alternate escape. No good. There was nowhere for her to go. The creature knew it too. It ambled forward without urgency or imperative.

The patio lamp illuminated a sheen of dark wetness on its fur. Georgia's eyes flicked to the pools of gore coagulating around her former coven mates. She gulped. Then she glanced behind her. The ground disappeared just after the banister. In the darkness, she couldn't calculate the drop.

She looked back at the creature, and made up her mind.

It seemed to realize what she was planning, and surged forward with a roar. By then, Georgia was already falling. She hit the ground and kept going, sliding down the steep hillside through a painful mix of coastal scrub, iceplant, and what she suspected was poison oak. Sandy dirt filled her boots. Her jeans ripped, and her battered side screamed with fresh vengeance.

She landed at the bottom in a heap. Georgia sat up with a wheeze and looked around. A trail, dirt, a path; in the moonless night, she couldn't be sure.

She dragged herself to her feet and swore. Her helmet was back up on the patio and her bike was still parked outside the house. No way in hell was she going back for either. At least she still had her cell phone. She could call someone to come and get her, provided she made it to the bottom of the hill alive.

As if on cue, the creature let out another roar. Georgia's eyes jerked back up to the patio.

For a brief, horrifying moment, she thought it would follow. It didn't, merely paced back and forth alongside the banister. Snarl after fearsome snarl pierced the night air. Bottomless black eyes glittered down at her. Realization thudded dully in the pit of her stomach.

It was memorizing her.

Georgia swallowed hard and tucked her arm close to her injured side. She started down the trail at as close to a jog as she could manage.

The creature's eyes were heavy on her back all the way to the bottom.

# CHAPTER ONE

#

What the hell was she even doing here?

Georgia twisted the strap of her purse and stared at the sign on the door in front of her.

MACMILLIAN & DECOMPOSTELA, LLC.

Missing Persons, Document Recovery, and Discreet Inquiries

She glanced around. She'd passed this place hundreds of times over the years, but had never actually gone in. Most tall buildings were bigger inside than they looked from the street. The Procyon Building was the opposite. If anything, it was narrower on the inside. The MacMillian and deCompostela detective agency took up the entire third floor.

A fresh wave of doubt flooded over her. What was she doing here? Private detectives were for insecure housewives, parents of troubled teens, bent old ladies who'd forgotten where they parked. She was none of the above. She was a sane, stable, capable adult. Yet here she was.

Desperate times, and all that.

It had been nearly a week since her coven's New Moon Esbat—or as she was coming to think of it, her own live-action horror movie. She'd tried like hell to put that night out of her mind. Easier said than done, as it turned out. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw bodies. Every time she took a breath, she tasted blood.

Her hand was shaking. Georgia bit back a curse and flexed her fingers. For a moment, she considered doing an about-face and heading back to the elevator. It wasn't like anyone knew she was here. No one would know she'd chickened out.

Remember why you came.

Georgia groaned.

Her knock sounded hyper-loud in the cramped hallway. She rocked back on her heels and stared at the door. Seconds stretched into minutes. Minutes stretched into eternity.

Nothing.

Georgia blew out a breath she didn't remember holding. "Seriously?" She raised her fist to knock again.

The door opened. Georgia gulped as the entire doorway suddenly filled with a man she didn't recognize. She'd been expecting Jesper MacMillian.

This was definitely not Jesper MacMillian.

This man had a rich black complexion. His head was bald- whether by nature or design, she couldn't be sure. Tiny studs flashed in his ears. He wore a beautiful black suit, painstakingly tailored to fit his massive shoulders. Dark tattoos curled just above his pressed white collar, and down below the edges of his cuffs.

His face was neither kind nor unkind. He studied her with vague disinterest, his eyes quiet and guarded beneath solid brows.

Georgia cleared her throat. "I'm, ah, here to see MacMillian."

The man didn't move. "He's out of town."

"Oh." She shifted. "Do you know when he'll be back? I have a... problem. I'd like to hire his services."

"I'm his partner. What kind of problem?"

So this was the "deCompostela" in the sign. Georgia hesitated. She was breaking some serious rules by coming here, but MacMillian had proven he could be trusted. His partner was another matter. If MacMillian was a mundane, odds were deCompostela was, too. She wasn't about to risk her shaky truce with the Witching Council by bringing him into subversive business.

She had just made up her mind to leave when deCompostela folded his arms across his chest. His eyes made a slow sweep of her body, ending with her face. His expression was all too easy to read: _this should be good._

Georgia stiffened. A streak of stubborn pride she had never been able to control reared its head. MacMillian's partner thought he had her pegged, did he? She lifted her chin. "Someone's been following me."

His expression didn't change. "Come inside."

Georgia ground her teeth as he retreated into the reception room. Damn her big mouth.

She followed grudgingly, and glanced around. She'd seen doctor's offices that were more welcoming. The walls were bare. The couch against the far wall sagged. The silk ficus in the corner was coated with dust. There weren't even any magazines to read.

There was another door, presumably one that led to the actual offices. deCompostela planted himself in front of it and crossed his arms again. "So. You think you're being followed."

The way he said it, she already sounded crazy. Georgia scowled. "I don't 'think' I'm being followed. I'm being followed."

"Of course." Still, his expression didn't change. "Why don't you start at the beginning?"

Georgia twisted. The beginning? What a conversation that would be. _Sure thing, Mr. deCompostela. It all began last week when I arrived late to my monthly satanic worship service and found my entire coven murdered. Then I was attacked by something. I think it might have been a werewolf._

Gods. She might as well start picking out the curtains for her padded cell.

deCompostela was still waiting. Georgia cleared her throat. "Um, the beginning..."

He didn't roll his eyes, but she got the distinct impression he wanted to. "Okay, let's try this. Is there anyone in your life who might want to follow you?"

Georgia blinked. "What do you mean? Like who?"

He leaned against the door. "Anyone who might have a grudge. Former co-workers, jealous ex-boyfriends..." He paused, looked her up and down. "Jealous ex-girlfriends."

"What? No!" Georgia rubbed her face. "Look, I'm not being stalked, okay? I'm being _—_ " She broke off. She couldn't bring herself to say the word out loud. _Hunted_. She shivered.

Something that looked like genuine concern flashed over deCompostela's face. "Maybe you should sit down."

"I'm fine." She was too agitated to sit. She started to pace. "This isn't a work problem, and it isn't some domestic dispute." She gnawed on her lower lip. "It's more like I, well, witnessed something."

No answer. Georgia sneaked a glance at deCompostela. His brows were knotted. "What kind of something?"

Georgia looked away again. Of course she couldn't tell him. Aside from whatever issues the Council might have, she'd worked hard to keep a low profile, to act like everything was normal. To date, she was pretty sure no one knew she'd been at the Esbat that night.

No one besides the creature.

An image forced its way into her head: a wide, disembodied mouth, yawning towards her out of the darkness; huge, razorblade teeth, glistening with a dark substance she didn't want to think about. It was the same image she'd been falling asleep to all week.

Rather, the same image that had been keeping her awake all week

Georgia wet her lips. "I really can't say."

She didn't look to see his reaction, but she could feel deCompostela's gaze grow sharp. She tried to appear nonchalant.

After a few seconds, he let out a heavy sigh. "Look, miss..."

Georgia squared her shoulders. "Clare. Georgia Clare."

"Ms. Clare." He hesitated. "You're not giving me much to go on. I'm not sure what you think I can do for you."

His voice had gone unexpectedly gentle, but the message behind his words came through loud and clear: _I can't help you_. Georgia swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat. She was on her own. Not like that was anything new, but still, she'd sort of hoped...

What, exactly?

She swallowed again and nodded. "I understand. You're right. Sorry for wasting your time." Her voice sounded thick, even to her. Time to get out before she really embarrassed herself.

"Wait."

He spoke with such authority she had no other option. Georgia stayed locked in place as deCompostela peeled himself away from the door. From the corner of her eye, she saw him fish something from his pocket. He handed it to her.

A cell phone.

"Put your address in there."

Georgia jerked her eyes to his face. She lifted her eyebrows.

deCompostela shrugged. "Got a few things to take care of first, but I can stop by when I'm done, check in on you. If you _are_ being followed, whoever it is might back off if they see you're not alone."

The way he put it almost managed not to sound insulting. Georgia took the phone without a word and did as he asked. She could feel his gaze roaming her face the entire time. Her skin prickled.

If she didn't know better, she'd almost think he was reading her.

Unnerved, she tapped out the last few letters of her street and shoved the phone back at him. She barely waited for him to take it before she turned on her heel and bolted out the door. She didn't even try to pretend she wasn't fleeing.

† † †

It wasn't every day a witch came to see him.

Darius deCompostela gave up on the paperwork he'd been trying to fill out and leaned back in his chair. Semantics. Technically, Georgia Clare hadn't come to see him. She'd come to see MacMillian. Most people did, often with barely a sideways glance in his direction. Usually, that chafed.

Not this time. For one thing, her reluctance to speak with him didn't seem to have anything to do with, well, him.

For another thing, he didn't do witches.

Darius leaned forward again and picked up his pen. Outside, the sun was low in the sky. The surrounding buildings cast jagged shadows on his office floor. Ray Charles' version of _Sinner's Prayer_ crooned from the music dock on his desk.

Darius squinted down at the form in front of him. He almost managed to concentrate, but then an unusual, sweetly earthy scent teased his nostrils. He bit back a curse. It was the same scent that witch had been wearing. She hadn't set foot in his office. It must have followed him in.

He doubled down his focus and tried to ignore it. No use. The words on the paper started to swim.

_Damn_. He threw his pen down and rubbed his face with both hands. _Let it go, super-sleuth. Just let it go._ The last thing he needed at this point in his life was to get mixed up in the demimonde. MacMillian was testament enough to what would happen. Take on one subversive client, and next thing he knew, there would be a whole line of them beating down his door.

Darius pressed his lips together. He'd had more than his fill of that circus, thank-you-very-much. He wasn't involved in that world. Not even a little. Not at all.

He glanced at the small piles of salt in each of the office's four corners, and winced. Okay, so maybe that wasn't entirely true.

But it didn't matter. A few piles of salt didn't change anything. And they were for protection only, insurance against things that went bump in the night. No, whatever Georgia Clare had gotten herself into, she would just have to deal with it on her own.

Her aura, though.

Darius shook himself again, but the image that now filled his thoughts wouldn't be dislodged so easily. He'd never seen an aura like hers before. It had nearly blinded him when he first opened the agency's door, had flooded the reception room with color when she'd stepped inside.

He'd read her magic in it easily; showers of sparks flowing throughout the auric halo. The various colors had slipped and shifted as she spoke, slipping between pale blues and purples, and the occasional vibrant orange.

Idealistic.

Independent.

He'd kept his face carefully blank, lest she realize what he was doing. If he was smart, he'd have made it obvious, then held the door for her when she turned tail and ran. Instead, he'd blurted out the first thing that popped into his head.

What kind of something?

The change in her aura had been instantaneous and shocking. Muddy brown. Wispy streaks of black. Bright, clear red.

_Confusion_.

_Negativity_.

_Fear_.

It had been all he could do to maintain his coolly-detached expression. He'd been around enough fakers and head-cases that he could read their auras a mile away. There'd been no sign of mental instability in this woman's aura. No deception. Everything she'd told him had been the truth.

And whatever she hadn't told him had terrified her.

It was a jarring realization. Georgia Clare looked about as tough as they came. All worn denim and black leather, with a heavy pair of shiny shitkicker boots to complete the _don't-fuck-with-me_ effect. What the hell could scare a woman like that?

Darius glanced at the clock on his desk. It was earlier than he normally left, but he doubted he'd get any more work done today. Besides, the witch was expecting him. He hadn't really intended to stop by; had only offered to get her out of his office. The more he thought about it, though, the more it seemed like a good idea.

Darius pushed away from the desk and stood, checked his pockets and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair. He swept a quick glance around the room, then headed out, locking the door behind him.

MacMillian's office was oddly still. Darius shrugged into his jacket as he strode through, paused once to glance at the empty desk. Normally on his way out, he would lob his partner a pithy comment. MacMillian would retaliate, they would banter for a few minutes, then he would leave.

But MacMillian was out of town—"family business", whatever that meant. He'd already been gone a week, had just called that morning to say he'd be gone a week more, at least.

Darius squared his shoulders and continued into the reception room. MacMillian could stay away as long as he wanted. It wasn't like they were married. Besides, if not for him, that witch and her subversive problems would never have landed on his desk.

Darius reached the front door and stopped. The invisible wards he'd sketched around the exit were humming, a low but unmistakable frequency that crackled over his skin and made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He muttered a curse. Activity like this only ever meant one thing.

Ghosts.

Painted in saltwater, his wards at least kept the offices clear. The hall outside was a different case entirely. No matter what he did, they kept coming back. Some days were worse than others. Judging by the irritated buzz the wards were making, today was definitely on the "worse" end of the spectrum.

Darius ground his teeth. The witch. His spirit tails must have picked up on her magic, and flocked to it like moths to a flame. He sighed. Might as well get the inevitable over with. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Throbbing pain shot through his forehead. Blinding light filled the hall outside: pure auric energy, more densely packed than he had ever seen before.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, put his head down and waded through the odd mish-mash of noncorporeal bodies. Miners, businessmen, housewives, saloon girls. Black, white, native, Asian. All blended together in a single etheric mass. Wispy hands brushed fruitlessly against his wrists. Darius ignored them.

The noise was harder to avoid. The spirits all seemed to be talking at once, with voices he didn't so much hear as feel deep in his gut. Rolling nausea surged in addition to the pounding in his head. A woman in a fifties housedress with horrendous burns on her face jostled for position at his side, quickly lost it to a man in an Edwardian-style sack suit and bowler hat babbling about a stolen jewel.

Darius ignored them both and quickened his pace. He reached the elevator, and the spirit horde flew into a frenzy. As one body, they tried to follow him into the car.

Time to break out the artillery. Darius closed his fingers around the small bottle in his pocket, pulled it out and opened the cap. An earthy, exotic aroma wafted out. The spirits nearest him dimmed.

Darius shook a few drops of the oil onto his finger and went to work. In short order he had traced the entire interior of the elevator. Just for extra insurance, he shook out a last drop and pressed the pad of his finger to his forehead. He peered out where the spirits had been.

Nothing.

Darius hit the button for the lobby, and watched the elevator doors slide shut on the empty hallway.

# CHAPTER TWO

#

The address the witch had typed into his phone took him to a narrow, treeless section of Fillmore Street.

The trendy restaurants and dive bars of the Lower Haight were already inundated by the time Darius' bus let him off. He dodged an exuberant pack of boho-chic co-eds coming around the side of a corner meat market, and started up the hill.

Multicolored Victorian condos and subdivisions lined the road. Georgia's building was about a block up, an Italianate relic that shared its first level with a locksmith's and a grocery. Rickety metal fire escapes clung desperately to the gritty, salmon-colored façade.

Darius paused in front of the heavy gated street door, turned, and surveyed the rest of the neighborhood. Nothing seemed out of place. Small groups of grungy hipsters gallivanted down towards The Haight. Across the street, a single intrepid couple was pushing a stroller up the hill.

Darius sighed and turned back to the intercom in the wall. He'd make this quick. Maybe he'd still have time to hit up his favorite dim sum place on Jackson before the last bus of the night.

Before he could buzz Georgia's apartment, the interior door swung open. A moment later, the outer gate followed suit. A well-dressed young couple stepped out onto the street. They glanced at Darius, took in the studs in his ears, his tattoos, the sharply-tailored suit and lace-up Oxfords.

After a moment's pause, the man spoke up. "Cool cufflinks, dude."

Darius blinked.

By then, the couple was already headed towards Haight Street. The gate started to swing shut. At the last minute, Darius ducked through it. He caught the heavy interior door a split second before it clicked shut, and slipped inside.

† † †

It was her third night in a row of frozen pasta for dinner. Not that she was counting.

Georgia popped the top off yet another bottle of Corona and took a long draw. She leaned back against the counter. The microwave hummed behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at the digital clock on the unused stove. Sighed.

Nearly six o'clock, and still no sign of deCompostela. The pang of disappointment in her chest chafed at her pride. She should have known better than to believe he would stop by. He'd already made it abundantly clear he thought she was out of her mind.

Truth be told, the possibility had occurred to her. It had been a week since the new moon, and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of... _it_. Whatever _it_ was. If not for the lingering scent of blood in her nostrils, she could almost believe she'd hallucinated the whole thing.

The microwave beeped. Georgia took one last drag of beer, then set her bottle down next to the two that had preceded it and opened the door. Fragrant steam rushed out; a heady blend of tomato, basil, and MSG.

Georgia reached in and grabbed the microwaveable plastic bowl, hissed and yanked her hand back again. She scanned the kitchen for something she could use as a potholder. Finally, she settled on a bunched-up paper towel.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she pulled out the pasta bowl. Georgia tensed, turned...

...Just in time to see her living room window explode inward in a hail of glass. She let out a startled shriek. A massive, dark creature suddenly occupied the space where her coffee table used to sit.

Everything else seemed to happen in slow-motion. The creature straightened, shaking shards of glass off its dull black fur. Its ears twitched towards her. Its lips peeled back from its razor-sharp teeth.

Georgia's chest seized. Recognition slammed through her. The creature snarled. Any lingering doubts she'd been harboring instantly evaporated.

It was here.

Georgia blindly hurled her steaming pasta bowl in the direction of the living room and bolted from the kitchen. She looked over in time to see it connect with a loud _splat_ squarely between the intruder's eyes. The creature howled and clawed desperately at its face.

Georgia didn't wait for it to recover. Her altar. If she could just get to her altar, she could banish the ugly fucker and buy herself some time.

The creature was planted in the dead center of the straightest path across the living room. Georgia veered wide. She had almost cleared the front door when it flew open in a barrage of splinters. Someone barreled into her. They both sprawled to the ground.

The new intruder landed on top. Georgia hissed, bucked, clawed at anything she could reach. Her mystery assailant scrambled off her.

"Jesus Christ, would you calm down, you crazy—what the _fuck_?"

deCompostela. Georgia didn't let herself pause to feel relief. She rolled to her feet, grabbed his hand and dragged him after her. They dove behind her sagging couch just as the creature regained its bearings. It threw back its head and let out a roar that shook her remaining windows.

Darius sniffed. "Is that tomato sauce?"

Georgia didn't answer. Her focus was squarely on her altar again. It was still too far away. "Wait here."

"What—"

She leaped to her feet. The creature's eyes locked on her. Georgia swallowed the terror that welled in her chest and sprinted for the altar. She skidded to the floor in front of it like a baseball player sliding into home, yanked open one of the drawers and fumbled for the first items that came to mind.

The creature roared again. A blast of superheated air hit the back of her neck. Georgia braced for the feel of teeth around her throat.

"Right here, ugly!"

She turned in time to see Darius' massive fist catch the creature square in the nose. The creature yelped, then retaliated with a swipe of an even-more-massive paw. The blow swept Darius clear off his feet. He flew backwards and hit the wall with a dull crunch, then sagged to the ground with a wheeze. Flecks of paint and drywall fluttered to the floor around him.

But he'd bought her the time she needed. Georgia held up her black candle and flipped her Bic lighter to life. She touched the flame to the wick. The creature's eyes widened.

"Black, the color of protection. Black, the color of night."

The creature snarled. Darius heaved himself to his feet and surged forward. He wrapped his arms around the creature's hind legs and held tight.

"Black, the color of silence. Black, the color of stillness."

The creature swiped at Darius again. Its paw caught empty air where his head had been just seconds earlier. It tried to move. Darius' arms visibly tightened. Muscles bunched under his suit jacket.

"With black I banish thee. With will I banish thee." Georgia poured intent into her words. Her voice grew heavier, fuller. "Return to the night. Return to the silence. Return to the stillness. Be gone from this place."

The creature let out a strange yelp-hiss as invisible forces compelled it to obey. Darius released it and scrambled backwards.

Georgia lifted her chin. Magic crackled through her veins, tinged her vision black. "Be gone from this place," she repeated. "With black and with will, by my power and by the power of the Lady, I banish thee. So mote it be." She blew out the candle.

The creature vanished in a swirl of acrid black smoke. Its final, infuriated roar echoed through the small apartment.

Georgia finally allowed herself to breathe again. For the first time, she realized she was coated in a fine film of glass and wood slivers. She reached up to dust herself off, at the last minute thought better of it.

Instead, she turned to Darius. He had hauled himself onto her sad excuse of a sofa. His hands were planted on his knees. He stared at the spot where the creature had last stood.

Georgia crossed her arms and cleared her throat. She waited until he looked up at her, then arched an eyebrow. "So. Do you believe me now?"

# CHAPTER THREE

#

He was fairly sure he'd bruised a rib.

Darius sat perched on the edge of Georgia Clare's faded sofa. In front of him were the shattered remains of what he guessed had once been a coffee table. It was little more than kindling now; a sad, splintery mess. He stared at it, his brain still stuck processing one particular image.

That... _thing_. He'd never seen anything like it. At first glance, it had vaguely resembled a dog. A dog with yellow eyes. A dog that could walk on its hind legs, that seemed to repel light, that came with a distinctly sulphuric smell...

Right. Not a dog.

Before he could mull over the other possibilities, Georgia straightened from where she'd been crouched in front of the refrigerator. "Here we go. I knew these were in there somewhere." She picked her way around the wreckage in her living room, and passed him a plastic bag.

Darius glanced at it. "Vegetable Medley?"

She shrugged. Her cheeks reddened slightly. "Fiber, right? Anyway, it's all yours."

Darius tugged the hem of his dress shirt out of his slacks and pressed the impromptu ice pack to his side. The cold bit painfully through his undershirt. He hissed.

Georgia watched, arms crossed, forehead knotted. "You seem to be taking this awfully well."

Darius debated ignoring the implied question, finally gave a tiny shrug. "What can I say? You're not the first witch I've dealt with."

Her eyebrows shot up. "How did you know I'm a witch?" Her eyes widened. "Are you part of the demimonde?"

No way was he going to tell her the truth. Darius gave the first plausible excuse he could think of. "MacMillian told me about his last case." Georgia's eyes narrowed. He grasped for something more. "And I've seen some things of my own."

She nodded slowly. "Anything like this?"

"No." That at least, he could be honest about. "Nothing like this."

She blew out a breath. Her gaze fell to his side. "You know, I could fix that for you."

"No." He was already in deeper subversive shit than he'd bargained for. At the chagrined look on her face, he added, "Thank you. It's fine."

She humphed and looked away.

Darius hesitated. He should leave. Damn it, he'd barely gotten out of this world the first time. No way in hell was he getting dragged back in. He was a respectable, mundane detective now, not a goddamn monster hunter.

Georgia cleared her throat. "Right. Well." Without looking at him, she turned and retreated to the kitchen. Darius heard her rummaging under the sink. A few seconds later she returned with a plastic garbage bag. She crouched next to the ruined coffee table and started gathering up the pieces.

The last rays of the evening sun flooded through the opening where her window had been. For the first time, Darius noticed her hair was streaked with purple. The light turned it iridescent, and made her fair skin gleam like brushed porcelain.

But it was the look on her face that struck him. Her mouth was set in a determined line. A muscle ticked in her jaw.

Something kicked in his chest. Darius shifted. "What are you going to do?"

She shrugged. "I'll need to sweep up the glass. And put something over the window. Garbage bag should do the trick. I think I have some duct tape around here somewhere." She blew out a breath. "Shit. My landlord is going to be so pissed."

Darius shook his head, winced as pain stabbed his side. "No. I mean, about the rest of it."

Georgia paused. "Don't know." She reached down for a jagged piece of wood, gasped, and jerked her hand back. "Damn it!"

Darius caught a glimpse of blood welling from her fingertip, then she stood and headed back to the kitchen. She pulled a paper towel off the roll on the counter and wrapped it around her finger. Her face tightened.

He clenched his teeth. He knew that look. She was going to cry. Damn it, he really needed to get out of there. He pulled the bag of frozen veggies out from under his shirt. "Well, thanks for this."

She nodded wordlessly, eyes fixed on the counter.

Darius started to stand. At the same time, Georgia took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back. She turned and opened a cupboard. When she turned back around, she was holding a broom and dust pan. Head high, she strode towards the blanket of glass under the window.

She glanced at him. "Need a hand up?"

Darius grimaced. He was going to regret this. He laid the pack of veggies down beside him and settled back on the sagging cushions. "Let's say I decide to help you."

Georgia's head whipped up. "What—"

"You'd have to tell me everything." The cautious hope in her clear green eyes pricked at him. "None of that 'I really can't say' bullshit. You give me the whole story, even the parts you don't think make a difference."

Georgia settled back on her heels. "Are you sure?"

Not in the slightest. Darius met her eyes anyway. "This may surprise you, but I'm not in the habit of walking away from someone in trouble." Though whether she was in trouble, or just plain _was_ trouble, he still hadn't made up his mind.

Her lips twitched. "Well goodness, Mr. deCompostela, you're a regular knight in shining armor."

"Glad someone's finally noticed." He scooted over, and nodded to the opposite edge of the couch. "Might as well get started."

Georgia didn't move right away. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and stared down at the glass around her feet. "I'm not really sure where to..."

Darius sighed. "You came into the office because you thought something was following you. I'm guessing you meant that...whatever-that-was." He paused. "I'm also guessing you know why it's after you."

Georgia walked over to the couch and sat down heavily. She rubbed her face with both hands.

Darius continued, carefully gauging her reactions. "You said you witnessed something. Want to tell me about it?"

She looked up sharply, opened her mouth, then shut it again. Then she nodded and took a deep breath. "You know that mass murder up in Forest Hill? The one that's been on the news all week?"

The room seemed to go still around him. "I thought they said there were no survivors."

She looked away. "There weren't."

Barely suppressed anguish pulsed from her in waves. Darius looked away, too. His chest tightened. He took a moment to regain control, and tried again. "Tell me what happened."

"Yeah." Georgia sat a little straighter. "So, my coven holds a ceremony every month for the full moon. I've gotten pretty bad about going. But the one last week was special." Her hands twisted in her lap. "It was an Esbat for the new moon. They aren't marked very often, and there were a few things I wanted to..."

Darius raised an eyebrow.

She shook her head. "It's not important. Point is, I really wanted to make this one. But then my best friend decided to leave town at the last minute. She owns this tea shop, and I agreed to close up for her. By the time I finished, I was running late."

She stopped. Darius waited for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Go on."

"I was late." Georgia's voice sounded suspiciously thick. "And when I finally got there, everything was quiet. Just... quiet. You know when it's _too_ quiet, and you get the feeling something's wrong?" She searched his face, then continued. "I let myself around to the back patio, where we always meet. Met. And it was... there was just..."

She stopped again. This time, Darius didn't prod. He studied her face in profile. Color blotched her cheeks, and the tendons strained in her neck. She didn't look like she was breathing.

After what felt like hours, she inhaled deeply and resumed. "There was blood. Everywhere. I slipped in it when I came around the side of the house." She looked down at her too-shiny black motorcycle boots. "Spent a fortune on these," she muttered. "But I couldn't put on my old pair again. It wasn't just blood. My coveners...there were _pieces_ —"

She stood abruptly and started to pace. Her face was an unhealthy shade of gray.

Darius watched silently. He had the sudden, irrational urge to say something comforting, but nothing seemed appropriate. He forced himself to stay still and wait. His hands flexed where they rested on his knees.

Finally, Georgia gave her head a solid shake. "Anyway. That's when I saw that thing for the first time. It was inside the house, and I guess it heard me, because it came right through the back window." She eyed the mess on the carpet. "Come to think of it, I'm starting to sense a pattern."

The dry amusement in her voice caught him off guard. Darius blinked.

If she noticed, she gave no sign. "I managed to fight it off at first, but when I tried to run, it grabbed me." She stopped pacing. Her forehead furrowed. "Funny thing, though. It could have killed me right then. I mean, I was completely helpless. But it didn't. It just clocked me on the head, like it was trying to knock me out."

Something dark and heavy settled in the pit of his stomach. "That thing hit you?"

"Yep. Twice, actually."

"Twice." He realized he was staring, and clamped his mouth shut.

Georgia shrugged. "What can I say? I have a hard head."

As if he hadn't noticed. Darius bit back a groan. This woman was definitely trouble. He collected himself. "Go on."

Georgia shrugged again. "There's not much left to tell. It had me pinned up against the back railing of the patio, and then everything happened pretty fast. But after I jumped—"

"You _what?_ "

Georgia gave him a blank look. "What?"

Darius pinched the burgeoning sore spot between his eyes. His first time out in the subversive ring, and his client was a witch with a death wish. Or a crazy streak. Either way, he had the sudden, distinct feeling he was staring at an oncoming train. "Nothing. Sorry. Continue."

Georgia sighed. "I know it sounds nuts, but it was the only thing left to do." A shudder wracked her shoulders. "Anyway, the house was on a hill. I landed in this wicked patch of poison oak, and just kept rolling until I reached the bottom. That's when I realized it was watching me."

Darius kept his face carefully blank. "Of course it was watching you. You'd just jumped off a cliff."

"Hill." Georgia crossed her arms again. Her expression grew serious. "And maybe watching isn't the right word. More like...studying. You know? And then when I ran, it felt like it let me get away."

His thoughts filled with an image of the creature's soulless black eyes. Darius resisted the urge to shudder himself, instead sat up a little straighter. "Why would it do that?"

"No idea." Georgia wrapped her arms around herself. "I hardly stopped to think about it at the time. I wasn't even sure I was going to make it out alive. Hell, I was so terrified I left Dolores behind."

"Dolores?"

"My bike." Georgia winced. "I hope she's still there. I haven't been back since that night."

"Right." Darius blew out a breath. "Anything else?"

Georgia shook her head.

"Does anyone else know about what you just told me?"

Georgia shook her head again. "I'm not exactly tight with the witching guild, if you catch my drift. The magic I work..." She stopped. "That's not important, either. Let's just say my presence at a massacre of witches wouldn't go over well."

This just kept getting better and better. Darius stood, winced as pain flared in his side. Georgia started to speak, apparently thought better of it and shut her mouth. Darius cast an assessing eye around the small apartment. "I assume you're going to fully ward this place after I leave?"

Her eyebrows went up, but she only nodded.

He nodded too. "Good. Now the way I figure, you've already banished this thing from here. That makes this the safest place for you right now. The second I'm gone, finish your wards and lock everything. Doors, windows..." He glanced at the ruined bay window. "Need help with that?"

"No. Thanks." Georgia studied him. "You sure know a lot about wards. MacMillian couldn't have told you that much." Her eyes narrowed. "Just how many things have you seen?"

_Too many._ Darius didn't say it out loud. He merely plucked his jacket from where he'd draped it over the arm of the sofa, and slung it over his shoulder. He started towards the door. "I'll be back tomorrow. Early. Be ready."

"Why?" Georgia trailed behind him. "Where are we going?"

Darius glanced back at her without slowing. "To get Dolores, of course."

# CHAPTER FOUR

#

Forest Hill was still blanketed in early morning fog when they arrived.

Georgia tried to ignore the prickle at the back of her neck. She'd never thought about how deeply ingrained the usual city sounds had become. Up here there was no traffic, no hum of streetcars, no pedestrian bustle.

The utter serenity bordered on unnerving.

She stopped walking and swiped away the sheen of sweat that coated her forehead. Plenty of people drove in the city. Not Darius deCompostela, apparently. Why, oh why, couldn't he have a car? A motorcycle? Hell, she'd even take a Vespa. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually walked anywhere.

Up ahead, Darius paused and looked back. His breathing came deep and even, and his gray suit didn't have so much as a crease. He arched an eyebrow. "Need a minute?"

Georgia forced herself to breathe through her nose. "I'm fine."

He shrugged and resumed walking. Georgia scowled at his back, then followed. All around them, fog painted the posh residential neighborhood in pale watercolor tones. Italianate villas and pseudo-French farmhouses, lush lawns and verdant shrubbery all melted together in a fairytale dreamscape.

Georgia scowled deeper.

She was panting by the time they reached the top of the hill. Darius waited while she planted her hands on her hips and caught her breath. He shook his head. "You know, they have this thing called aerobic exercise..."

Georgia gave him her most fearsome glare. "I don't need exercise."

He shrugged. "Of course. You're right. It's perfectly normal for someone to puff like a chronic smoker after a short walk."

"A short..." Georgia stared.

Darius deCompostela was officially off his rocker. Mental. Completely and utterly...

He glanced at her, then quickly looked away again. Not so quickly, however, that she missed the faint twinkle in his eye.

Georgia mustered her reserves, lifted her chin, and brushed past him. "Come on. The house is this way."

He kept pace easily. Now they were side-by-side, so close she could reach out and touch him if she wanted.

She sped up.

The road forked up ahead. Georgia nodded to the left. They walked in silence a few minutes longer. Then a familiar silhouette caught her eye. She blew out a laugh. "Holy shit. She's still here."

Her black and chrome Honda Valkyrie gleamed through the fog. Georgia broke into a jog, her screaming muscles forgotten. Yellow crime scene tape roped off the narrow neck of the street. She slipped under it and slowed to a power walk. A knot of tension she hadn't noticed before eased.

Behind her, Darius let out a low whistle. "This is Dolores?"

"This is Dolores." The Valk looked none the worse for wear. Georgia checked the hardbags. They didn't appear to have been tampered with.

Darius walked a slow arc around it, lips pursed in naked appreciation. "She's a beast, isn't she?"

Georgia bussed one of the chrome-capped carburetors fondly. "My longest standing relationship."

Darius' lips twitched.

At that moment, an unfamiliar voice cut through the morning quiet. "Hey! You two. Stop right there."

Georgia jerked around to see a woman striding down the street. Her skin was a shade or two lighter than Darius'. Her black hair was pulled back into a knot, her mouth set in an unyielding line. A badge gleamed from the waistband of her gray trousers.

She stopped in front of them, and looked from one of them to the other. Her gaze lingered briefly on Darius. "Didn't you see the police tape? This area is an active crime scene."

Georgia cleared her throat. "I, ah..."

The woman turned to her. Her dark eyes narrowed a fraction. Then she glanced at the Valkyrie. "Is that your bike?"

Georgia's chin went out on reflex. "Who wants to know?"

Darius hissed a quiet breath through his teeth. The woman's eyes shifted back to him, then returned to Georgia. She unclipped the badge and held it up. "Inspector Chelsea Chandler, SFPD Homicide." She reattached it in a single smooth motion. "Now I'll ask again. Is that your bike?"

Georgia nodded stiffly.

"License, please."

Georgia grudgingly fished her driver's license out of her jacket pocket and handed it over.

"Georgia Clare." Inspector Chandler read her name in a flat voice, her expression impossible to decipher. She handed the license back. "Just thought this would be a good place to park, did you?"

Georgia's neck felt hot. "I..."

Darius smoothly cut her off. "Apologies, ma'am. It wasn't our intention to intrude on a crime scene."

Georgia released a breath as Inspector Chandler's icy glare turned on him. Darius didn't flinch. The detective sized him up dispassionately. "And you are?"

"Darius deCompostela. Would you like my license as well?"

"That won't be necessary." Inspector Chandler's eyes hovered on his face, as if trying to judge his sincerity. She turned back to Georgia again. "This bike has been here all week. Care to explain why that is?"

_No._ Georgia didn't say it out loud, merely lifted a shoulder, dropped it again. "What can I say? Drank myself stupid last time I was here. My friends had to drive me home."

"And how long ago was that, exactly?" Inspector Chandler had pulled out a small notepad and pen. She waited patiently.

Georgia pursed her lips. "I don't know. Couple weeks?" She cleared her throat. "It was a pretty wild night, if you know what I mean. Took me this long to even remember where I'd parked."

"Sounds like some party. I'm surprised we weren't called." The inspector jotted down a few notes, then glanced up. "Incidentally, we found a motorcycle helmet at our crime scene."

Georgia kept her face carefully blank. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's the house on the end of the street." Chandler looked her in the eye. "But then, I'm guessing you already knew that."

Some of the starch left her spine. Georgia looked away. "Yeah. Of course. I heard about what happened on the news."

"And you knew the occupants of the house." A statement, not a question.

Georgia blew out a breath. "Yes."

"You didn't come forward."

Georgia fought back a grimace. "Look, like I said, the last time I was there was, like, two weeks ago. I didn't think you'd want anything from me." She lifted her chin and met Chandler's gaze again. "It's not like I know anything."

Chandler didn't speak, merely studied her. Georgia forced herself not to twist under her heavy gaze. The detective's eyes felt far too perceptive.

Finally, Chandler stepped back. She jerked her head towards what Georgia now recognized as an unmarked squad car at the far end of the street. "Well, now you're here, I'd like to take you back to the station. There are just a few routine questions I need to ask you."

Georgia aimed a helpless glance at Darius. His expression didn't change. She swallowed a groan, and turned back to Inspector Chandler. "Great. And just how long will these 'routine questions' take?"

Chandler shrugged again. "Not long."

† † †

"I don't know how many times you want me to repeat the same thing."

The interview room at 850 Bryant was stuffy and cramped. Georgia uncrossed her legs, then re-crossed them again. She'd lost track of how long it had been since she arrived. She leaned forward.

"It's like I told you: I was at the house a couple weeks ago for a party. I got plastered. Someone drove me home. I must have left my helmet behind." She rubbed her forehead. "I don't know anything about the murders. I don't know who did them, or why, or how. I don't know anything."

Across the table from her, Inspector Chandler didn't look much more comfortable than she was. A few loose, wiry curls had escaped her up-do. Her skin was damp. A manila folder sat in front of her, a notepad on top of it.

"Fine." She sighed and sank back in her chair. "What else can you tell me about the other..." she peered down at the notepad and arched an eyebrow, " _coveners_ who would have been present that night?"

Georgia swallowed hard. She wasn't about to tell Chelsea Chandler the truth: that she hadn't given much more than a passing shit about any of them. That she'd barely been a member of that coven long enough to learn all their names. She'd already begun receiving subtle hints to move along.

That she'd stuck around as long as she had was due entirely to one person. And she definitely didn't want to talk to Chelsea Chandler about _her_.

Chandler reached across the table for the notepad in front of her, where she'd listed all the names she could remember. "I know this is difficult, Ms. Clare, and I wouldn't ask unless it was absolutely necessary." She scanned the list. "Why don't we start with Ellen Granch."

Georgia's throat closed. Of course the intrepid inspector would pick the one name she most wanted to avoid. She stared down at her hands.

"Ms. Clare?"

Emotions she'd carefully locked away railed against their restraints. Georgia shook her head. "I can't." Her voice snagged. "I'm sorry."

Chandler was silent for a moment. Then she said quietly, "You were close?"

Georgia didn't trust herself to answer. She nodded.

Close. Yes, she and Ellen had been close.

Chandler paused. "I'm sorry for your loss." She let that sink in, then picked up her notepad and pushed back from the table. "I think that's enough for today. If you'll wait a moment, I'll have an officer come and escort you out."

She gave Georgia one last, sympathetic look, then left the room without another word.

Georgia waited until the door closed behind her, then turned her attention to the manila folder, still on the table. It looked thicker than she'd expected. She shifted. How much could Chandler and her detectives really have found out? They were mundanes, after all, working a subversive case.

Even so...

Georgia glanced around the room, let her eye pass casually over the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. She stretched her legs, stood, maneuvered so her back was to the camera and her body blocked its shot of the table.

Voices sounded outside the interview room. Georgia swept the folder up from the table and slipped it inside her jacket. A second later, the door opened, and a young Latino man in police blues stuck his head in.

"Ms. Clare? Officer Santoro. Follow me please."

Georgia forced herself to nod politely, and followed him stiffly out of the room.

She'd suspected it was late, but wasn't prepared for just how late. The sun was already low in the sky, and slanted through the front windows of the Hall of Justice. As if on cue, her stomach growled.

Santoro winked and gave her a quick grin. "Better go take care of that."

Georgia laughed weakly. "Yeah. Thanks."

She waited until he disappeared back the way they'd come, then headed out the main doors. One glance at the uniformed officers milling around the entrance, and she tugged her jacket a little tighter. The manila folder felt like a beacon, blazing through her clothes. She took a deep breath, told herself for the umpteenth time no one could see it, and started down the steps.

"Learn anything?"

Georgia jumped and whirled around. Darius was leaning against the railing at the top of the stairs. How she'd missed him, she had no idea. Had he been waiting for her the entire time?

She scowled. "What makes you think I learned anything? _They_ interrogated _me_. You're a detective. Shouldn't you know how this works?"

Darius didn't seem daunted. He brushed past her on his way down the steps. "Let's just get out of here. You've wasted enough of my time today."

Georgia gaped. "How exactly have I wasted your time? You're the one who's supposed to be keeping my ass out of jail."

"I'm not your lawyer. Anyway, you weren't under arrest. You could have left anytime." Darius turned. "Now, are you going to tell me about that file you're trying to hide, or not?"

Georgia felt the blood drain from her face. She opened her mouth to deny it.

"Ms. Clare!"

Georgia closed her mouth again, and looked back. Chelsea Chandler was standing at the top of the stairs. Georgia resisted the urge to gulp. The folder. She must have noticed it was missing. Why else would she—

Heat suffused her side as Darius joined her on the step. Georgia stared up at him. He shifted closer, his face the picture of nonchalance. With a start, she realized what he was doing. The angle of his body neatly shielded where she'd tucked the folder under her jacket.

If Chandler noticed, she gave no sign. "Something I forgot to ask you. We have a sketch artist on the way in for another case. If there's anything else you can remember, anyone who might stand out as a possible suspect, I was hoping you might—"

"There's not." Georgia forced her voice to remain even. "I mean, like I said, the last time I was at the house was a couple weeks ago, and I don't remember much about that night. There's nobody who—" She stopped. Her throat suddenly felt parched. "Sorry. That's all I know."

Inspector Chandler's face softened a fraction. "We're exploring other avenues as well, obviously. The list of names you gave us should prove helpful. At the very least, we can start informing next-of-kin. If you happen to think of anything..." She trotted down two steps and handed Georgia a business card. "I trust you'll call me."

Georgia took the card with her free hand and jammed it into her pocket without looking at it. Noting Inspector Chandler's raised eyebrow, she plastered an agreeable smile on her face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that."

Chandler watched her a moment longer, then tipped her head. "All right, then." She turned and headed back up the stairs.

Georgia waited until she had disappeared inside again, then exhaled softly. A persistent warmth reminded her Darius hadn't moved. She looked up at him. Their eyes locked.

Several long seconds ticked by. Something flickered over his face, and he shifted away. He moved down one, two steps. "About that file?"

Georgia shook herself. She wasn't used to looking down at him. That must be why she felt so off-balance all of a sudden. She licked her lips. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Was it her imagination, or did his eyes lock on her mouth? Then he blinked. "Spare me the bullshit, Ms. Clare. As you so insightfully pointed out, I'm a detective. I'm going to find out sooner or later."

The cool confidence in his voice had her back stiffening. "It may have escaped your notice, _detective_ , but it's getting dark, and the Inspector was kind enough to have my bike towed. I have to get to the impound lot before it closes."

Darius' expression hardened. "Ms. Clare..."

It was Georgia's turn to brush past him. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. deCompostela. Have a good night."

† † †

He shouldn't be here.

Darius shifted while he waited for the barista to make his coffee. He glanced around, tried to force his shoulders to relax. No good. Every noise, every person who got up, walked in or out, made him tense all over again.

He should just forget the coffee and leave. If he did, he could probably still catch the last bus home.

His double espresso materialized on the bar. Darius bit back a sigh and grabbed it. Him and his goddamn hero complex. One of these days, it was going to get him killed...or worse. Too bad for him, he'd never been able to say no to trouble.

Especially the kind of trouble Georgia Clare was bringing.

He made his way to an empty table in the window of the small cafe, and lowered himself onto a ridiculously spindly chair. It squeaked under his weight. Darius ignored it and peered outside.

Across the street, the first-floor grocery of Georgia's building cast a fluorescent glow over the corner. Darius fixed his gaze resolutely on the apartments' street entrance. The gate was firmly closed, the space behind it dark. A lone figure walking what looked like a cocker spaniel trudged up the sidewalk in front of it.

Apart from them, no one else was in sight. It would be hours before the club crowd began stumbling home, and the nine-to-fivers would have long since turned in. Darius raised his paper demitasse and buried his nose in the fragrant steam hovering around the rim.

It was going to be a long night.

He released the sigh he'd been holding in, and took a sip of espresso. At the first bitter hit, the insides of his cheeks started to sweat. Darius took another sip. His eyes wandered away from the street entrance, higher, to where a street light glinted off the garbage bag Georgia had secured over her ruined window.

A light came on in the neighboring window. The bedroom? Had to be. Before Darius could look away, the witch herself appeared. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun. The black leather and denim were gone, replaced by a dark tank top and yoga pants.

Darius swallowed hard. This was a new incarnation of Georgia Clare. She looked...comfortable. Soft. Like her daytime persona was just that: a persona. A suit of armor to be shed once she knew she was alone.

She leaned forward, and his eyes locked on the thin line of shadow that ran between her breasts. Darius swallowed again. She looked up and down the darkened stretch of Fillmore, then started to pull the curtains shut. At the last minute, she straightened and looked across the street.

Directly at him.

Darius forgot to breathe. He stared up at her. His pulse hammered. Georgia stood without moving, her head tilted to the side. She appeared lost in thought. Was it possible she didn't see him?

Finally, she flicked the curtains shut. Her silhouette lingered briefly in the window, then disappeared into the room. The light went out.

Darius started breathing again, and took a fortifying gulp of espresso. God, he hoped she hadn't seen him. What the hell could he say if she asked what he was doing there? He barely even knew. All he had was the tiny voice inside him that suggested—no, _insisted_ —her safety was his responsibility.

Darius checked his watch. Then he settled back in his chair and began the long wait for morning.

# CHAPTER FIVE

#

It had been a long time since he'd pulled an all-nighter.

Darius finished touching up the saltwater wards in MacMillian and deCompostela's reception room, and dragged himself back to his office. He shut the door behind him, sagged against it. Fuck, he was tired. Tired and unnaturally wired. How many espresso shots had he had over the course of the night?

He didn't want to think about it.

He slunk across the room to his desk. He'd no sooner sunk into his chair than the phone rang. Darius muffled a groan and picked it up. "MacMillian and deCompostela, deCompostela speaking."

He barely registered the voice on the other end. Exhaustion dulled his senses, clouded his thoughts. The stack of papers in front of him blurred. A woman's voice droned over the speaker. His eyelids started to drift. Maybe he should put his head down. Just for a moment. Just for a quick—

The door to his office banged open. Darius' eyes shot wide. Georgia stood in the doorway, hair wild, as if a strong wind had blown her in. The leather was back. So was the denim. She leaned against the door frame.

Darius blinked away the fog in his brain. "Ms. Clare. What are you—"

An irate _harrumph_ came through the phone's speaker. "Ms. Clare? Who's Ms. Clare? This is Mrs. Owen."

Right. He was still on the phone. Darius coughed. "Mrs. Owen, of course. I'm sorry, someone's just come into the office. Let me get back to you about"— _what had she been talking about?_ —"that. We'll speak soon." He hung up without waiting for her response, his focus already back on Georgia.

She didn't wait for him to speak. "So! What's our first move?"

Darius shook himself. Maybe he was more tired than he'd realized. "What are you—"

Georgia pushed away from the door and crossed the office. "Our case! I figured we'd start as soon as possible."

Darius' forehead started to ache. "We?"

"Of course." Georgia balanced her hip on the edge of his desk. "You didn't seriously think I'd just sit in a corner and knit while you did all the work, did you?"

He stared, mute. Oh, no. Hell, no. This was definitely not what he'd signed up for. He might be working _for_ a witch—temporarily—but he'd be damned if he started working _with_ a witch. Darius resisted the urge to rub his throbbing temples, instead rested his hands calmly in front of him. "Actually, yes. That's exactly what you're going to do."

Georgia's jaw dropped.

Darius sat a little straighter. He could already see the argument brewing behind her eyes. He continued before she could speak. "You hired me to investigate what's going on. Last I checked, you weren't Joe Pesci, and this wasn't a Lethal Weapon movie. This is real life. And in real life, your tagging along getting in the way isn't part of the deal."

Georgia opened her mouth, closed it again. Her eyes sparked. "And if I'm attacked again?"

Darius forced a casual shrug. "Our firm doesn't do security. If you're worried, maybe you should hire a bodyguard."

"A bodyguard."

Her voice was too calm. Too measured. Darius shifted.

Georgia crossed her arms. "If you don't do security, maybe you'd like to explain what you were doing across from my apartment last night."

Damn. So she had seen him. Darius wracked his sleep-deprived brain for a suitable excuse. He couldn't think of one. He certainly wasn't about to say he'd been concerned about her. She didn't seem like the type who would take it well.

"How long were you there, anyway?"

Darius locked eyes with her. "What was in that file?"

It was a blatant change of subject, but it worked. Georgia pressed her lips together.

"That's what I thought." He leaned forward and started shuffling the papers on the desk. "I have a busy morning ahead of me, Ms. Clare. Unless you have something useful to contribute," he gave her a pointed look, "I expect you to stay out of sight and out of the way."

Georgia stared at him. Darius met her eyes evenly. Her lips thinned. She gave a stiff nod and turned on her heel.

Darius didn't let himself breathe again until the front door banged shut behind her.

† † †

She'd known hiring a private investigator was a mistake.

Georgia stalked out of the elevator, into The Procyon's spacious lobby. Her footsteps echoed off the pristine white marble. Did deCompostela seriously expect her to just wait around while that thing was still out there? Still _hunting_ her? Deliberately, she stomped a little louder.

"Excuse me, ma'am. The subversive entrance is out front."

Georgia jumped a little, and spun around. A man stood behind her. He was tall, with disheveled brown hair. A layer of stubble coated the lower third of his face, contrasted markedly with his neatly pressed slacks and striped polo shirt. He regarded her with the quiet firmness of a professional bouncer.

Georgia found her voice. "Subversive entrance?"

The man took in her blank expression, and his nostrils flared. "I'm sorry. I just assumed you were—never mind."

Georgia thought for a moment. Comprehension dawned. "Of course. Babylon's in this building, isn't it?"

Instant wariness filled the man's face. "What do you know about Babylon?"

"You can relax. I'm in the community. Georgia shifted. "But I'm here on...personal business."

"Personal business." The man's eyebrows went up. "If you're not here for Babylon, then that must mean..." His eyebrows shot higher. "Holy shit. Is Darius taking subversive clients now?"

"What?" Georgia shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I thought Mr. deCompostela could help me with something, but I was mistaken." Her throat tightened. She blew out a breath. "Who did you say you were again?"

The man had been studying her with a faintly slack-jawed expression. He clamped his mouth shut and stuck out a hand. "Daniel Zerubabbel, co-owner of Babylon. Pleased to meet you, miss...?"

"Clare." Georgia clasped his hand briefly. "Georgia." She hesitated. "You know Mr. deCompostela?"

Daniel Zerubabbel snorted. "Sure, I know Darius. Si and I both do."

"Si?"

"My business partner. Aloysius Paul." Daniel gestured around the lobby. "He owns this building. Been renting the third floor to Darius and MacMillian going on, shit, must be three years now. Honestly, I always thought it was strange, a mundane detective agency in The Procyon."

Georgia hmmed politely.

Daniel searched her face. "All the time I've known him, I've never seen Darius go near a subversive case. Yours must be something special."

Georgia perked up. "So he does know about the demimonde."

"Know about it?" Daniel snorted again. "You could say that."

"What does that mean?"

"He hasn't told you?" Daniel's face shuttered. "I've probably said more than I should. Nothing personal, you understand."

Georgia debated pressing him further, but the hard set to his jaw said it would be pointless. She dipped her head. "Sure. It was nice to meet you anyway, Mr. Zeru...Zeruba..." She winced. "I'm sorry. How do you pronounce your last name?"

A tiny smile ghosted over Daniel's lips. "Don't worry about it. 'Daniel' does me just fine."

Something about his eyes felt distinctly off. Georgia forced a smile of her own, even as the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. "I can manage that." She started backing towards the door. "See you around, Daniel."

She didn't put her back to him until she was outside again. She exhaled heavily, and double-timed it back to where she'd left Dolores. Her head was reeling. She took a few deep, calming breaths, and waited for her hands to stop shaking.

Clearly, there was significantly more to Darius deCompostela than he had led her to believe. What wasn't he telling her? Was he a subversive? An ally?

That she couldn't tell was more unnerving than she cared to admit.

† † †

He had to anoint himself twice on the way to The Black Magic Voodoo Lounge.

Darius paused outside the unobtrusive front door. A few feet away, cars zoomed both ways up and down Van Ness. Darius counted them like a mantra, and let the rich, musky scent of frankincense fill his senses. The last vestiges of ghostly fingers whispered over his shoulders. Even after they had faded into nothing, an icy chill lingered just under his skin.

Darius steeled his stomach against a shiver and pushed open the door.

The tiny corner dive was empty, save a couple of grizzled regulars preparing to drink their lunches at the long wooden bar. They looked up when Darius walked in, blinked their watery eyes at the slat of sunlight that followed him. Darius quickly scanned the lounge's faded burgundy banquets, then shut the door again.

As if on cue, a woman popped up from behind the bar. Her long, blonde dreadlocks were coiled in a heavy-looking bundle atop her head, granting a clear view of the various studs and rings that adorned her face. Her arms were covered with tattoos, including something over her left bicep that looked vaguely demonic. She hoisted a flat of clean glassware onto the work counter behind her. The demon's wings rippled.

The woman finally turned. A wide grin split her face. "D! What it do, man?"

Darius ambled up to the bar, ignoring the curious looks the other patrons shot over. "What it do, Bez."

Bez grabbed a rag and started wiping down the dark, scarred wood. "Papa's out to lunch, but he should be back in a few." A diamond stud twinkled at him from above her lip. "You can hang here while you wait, if you want."

"Thanks, but I didn't come to see Papa. Came to see you." He slid onto an empty barstool. "Got a minute?"

The hand holding the rag froze briefly. Bez resumed cleaning. "What's going on, D? You finally here to ask me out?"

Darius' lips twisted. "You know I like playing hard-to-get." He paused. "Though as it happens, I am in need of a witch's touch."

Bez's dark-shadowed eyes rose to his. "Word in the community is you've finally started taking subversive cases. That true?"

Darius winced. He'd been afraid of something like this. "No, it's not. I'm on one now, but it's a one-time thing."

Bez's face stilled. "Only one case I can think of that would get you to make an exception like that. This is about those murders last week, isn't it?"

Darius glanced at the drunks at the end of the bar. Satisfied they weren't listening, he returned his attention to Bez. "You keep up with what's what in the community. Anything you can tell me?"

"Just that this is bad. Real bad." Bez blew out a breath and leaned heavily against the bar. "Honestly, D, you're better off busting your subversive cherry with something else. A nice werewolf killing. A vampire blood drive." Her eyes worried over his face. "How the hell did you get mixed up in this thing, anyway?"

Darius tried to make his shrug look casual. "Got a client. Like you said, if it wasn't something big, I wouldn't get involved. You know how I feel about this shit."

Bez frowned. "Doesn't matter how you feel. You have a gift. That you refuse to use it—"

"It's not that simple." Darius didn't realize how harsh his voice sounded until Bez flinched. He forced his boiling emotions down to a slow simmer, and continued more gently. "We can discuss this another time." _Or not_. "Right now, I need your help. What can you tell me?"

Bez hesitated. Her pale eyes searched his. What she was looking for, Darius had no idea. He couldn't tell whether or not she found it. Her nostrils twitched, and she bent a little closer. "Frankincense." Her eyes clouded. "So you're still using the sanctuary oil."

Darius didn't answer.

Bez sighed and reached down behind the counter. She returned with a pen and a small notepad. Without looking up again, she scrawled something on the top paper. She tore it off and slid it over the bar.

Darius picked it up. Squinted at it. Turned it upside-down, then upside-down again. Whichever way he turned the paper, the letters on it looked like gibberish. He glanced up at Bez. "What's this?"

Bez put the pen and notepad away. "An address. At least, it will be." She plucked her rag off the bar again and went to work on a water stain. "Thing about witches; we're a paranoid lot. Call it a side effect of living in a world obsessed with seeing you burn."

Darius waited.

Bez scrubbed harder. "When the sun goes down, those symbols will turn into an address. That address will take you to a club. It's...exclusive. Hard to find. I'll meet you there and get you in, but after that, you're on your own."

He wasn't sure he liked the way she said _exclusive_. Darius folded up the paper and slipped it into his pocket. "What's so special about sundown?"

Bez's smile was all teeth. "That's when the predators come out."

# CHAPTER SIX

#

The address had to be wrong.

Darius peered down at the paper Bez had supplied, then at the sign over the building in front of him. The Far East Emporium sat at the beginning of Chinatown's tourist sector. With sunset, the crowds had mostly faded, leaving behind only faint impressions of excited energy. A few steps away, Dragon Gate was a pagoda-ed silhouette against the darkening sky.

Darius ground his teeth. Bez better not have played him. She'd said it herself; witches were a paranoid lot, and she was even more fickle than most. He certainly wasn't stupid enough to believe they were friends. She watched him the way people watched thunder clouds and feral dogs. Awe, respect...fear. Heaviest on the fear.

He moved to the side as a small cluster of camera-and-backpack-toting stragglers hiked up towards North Beach. Maybe he should just forget the whole thing. It was only a couple blocks to his regular dim sum haunt on Jackson. A heaping plate of har gau sounded like just the tonic for his bruised ego.

His mouth started to water. Darius turned to follow the tourists up the hill.

"Looks like my directions worked."

Darius stopped in his tracks, turned back around to see Bez striding towards him. Visions of dim sum started to fade. More than a little irritated, he crossed his arms. "You're late."

Bez gifted him with a snort. It almost hid the nervous glint in her eyes. "You're lucky I showed up at all. Do you know how much trouble I could get in, bringing you here? No one outside the guild is supposed to know about places like this."

"Worried it'll drive up the price of souvenirs?"

Bez rolled her eyes. "God, you're a dick sometimes." She wavered. "It's a floating club, okay?"

Darius blinked. "I thought those died out back in the nineties."

Bez smirked. "They did. Mostly." She looked around, and her face grew serious. "Look, if we're going to do this, we need to hurry up and do it. There are strict rules around anchor sites. We can't stay out in the open."

Darius ignored the warning sirens in his head and nodded. "Fine. How does this work?"

"Just follow my lead." Bez hooked her arm around his and started towards the doors of The Emporium.

Energy crackled as they stepped over the threshold. Darius briefly registered the glittering crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceilings, the ornate carvings and opulent furnishings that filled the sales floor. He'd heard stories about the floating clubs back when he was younger. He'd never actually been to one, of course. The circles he'd run in, something like that would be considered fraternization of the highest order.

Consequences would have been dispensed accordingly.

Bez continued through the showroom without slowing. A middle-aged Asian man sat behind a desk near the back of the store. He didn't acknowledge their presence at all. His hands lay folded over a stack of papers. His back was ramrod-straight. His eyes were the purest white Darius had ever seen.

Bez leaned towards him. Darius resisted the urge to flinch as her breath tickled his neck. "He's spellbound. The owners of the floating clubs always cast a little glamour over the anchor site. Not much point in a secret club if just anyone can see it."

Darius kept his face carefully neutral.

Bez shrugged. "There's nothing to worry about. The glamour is harmless. Tomorrow morning, he won't remember any of this. He'll just wake up feeling like he got the best night's sleep of his life."

"And what about me?" Darius avoided looking directly into the man's unseeing eyes. "Will I remember any of this?"

Bez nodded down at their linked arms. "Magic is energy, D. Tonight, think of me as your grounding wire." She winked up at him. "Just don't let go."

Darius shook his head. Floating clubs, glamours—up until a few days ago, he'd done an exceptional job of avoiding all this. He'd stayed out of the demimonde. He'd kept his nose clean. Damn Georgia Clare and her subversive case.

Double-damn him for taking it.

Bez was still watching him. Darius nodded stiffly. "Let's get this over with."

She didn't look much more eager than he was. "Right," she muttered under her breath. "Let's."

They continued past the man at the desk. Behind him was a narrow hallway. It was short, utilitarian. A bathroom sign hung on the first door they came to. Bez inclined her head towards the only other door at the very end. "There. That's it."

Darius furrowed his brow, but didn't answer. He had a feeling whatever usually sat behind that door was gone—at least for the night.

They drew closer, and the air seemed to thicken. Darius blinked hard as a soft fog caressed the outer corners of his mind. Some of the tension leaked from his shoulders. What was he doing here again? He couldn't quite remember.

"Darius."

The hard tiled floor seemed to sink a little with each step he took. Hot damn, but it looked comfortable. He'd caught a quick nap in his office before heading out, but it hadn't been enough to make up for his all-nighter. Maybe another one wouldn't be so—

" _Darius_."

Bez's voice cut through the shroud over his senses. Darius jerked, shook himself. He looked down, waited for his eyes to focus on her face. "Was that...?"

"The glamour. Yep." She shrugged at his disgruntled expression. "Hey, in our guild, you don't stay in business long unless you know what you're doing."

They reached the door, and Bez paused. She looked up. Her eyes were more serious than he'd ever seen them. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Darius swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and drew his shoulders back. "So do I."

Bez shook her head and reached for the door. Darius stopped her. "Let me."

She smirked. "Ever the gentleman."

"You know it." He took a deep breath, reached out and closed his free hand around the doorknob. A bolt of energy sizzled up his arm. He clenched his teeth, dragged open the door and peered inside.

A roomful of boxes greeted him.

He glanced down at Bez. "You said—"

"Didn't I tell you this place was hard to find?" She moistened her lips. "We have to go inside."

Darius finally wavered. This was insane. He'd never thought of himself as having a death wish, but here he was, getting ready to walk into a club that wasn't supposed to exist, clinging to a witch he wasn't entirely sure liked him all that much.

Almost immediately, his thoughts turned to Georgia. She must have known what a risk hiring a mundane detective posed. No matter he wasn't actually mundane; she'd had no way of knowing that. It said something that she'd believed he was her best option.

It said she had no one else.

Darius sighed and tightened his arm around Bez's. Her eyes burned against the side of his face, and he spared her a short nod. He could feel her take a deep breath and face forward again. Together, they stepped inside.

He instantly found himself someplace else.

Bez stopped just inside the doorway. "You all right?"

Darius didn't answer. The change was so seamless, it took him a moment to catch up. He stood motionless, waited for his perceptions to recalibrate. Gradually, his brain started to process their surroundings.

Something about the floating club reminded him of Wonderland. Not Disney's Wonderland, either, but Wonderland according to Lewis Carroll: dark, sumptuous. Treacherous. It was the sort of place where anything could happen...and probably did. He had a feeling if a deranged, bloodthirsty monarch suddenly swept in and started demanding people's heads, no one would bat an eye.

The other patrons had begun to note their presence. Darius leaned down to speak into Bez's ear. "Maybe we should get a drink."

Bez nodded. Nervous energy rolled off her in great, uncontrolled swells. "I could definitely use a drink."

This time, her arm tightened around his. She visibly steeled herself, then led the way deeper into the club.

The further they went, the more sinister the place felt. Music pulsed from speakers hidden in the dark, velvet-lined walls; an unsettling mashup that evoked both Rob Zombie and Thelonious Monk. The lighting was nearly nonexistent. An art deco chandelier gleamed overhead.

Darius looked a little closer. It was illuminated purely by candlelight. The tiny dancing flames were a lovely shade of purple.

"Neat trick, isn't it?"

Darius jerked in spite of himself, remembered at the last minute to keep a grip on Bez's arm. He turned. A man stood behind them. He looked a bit like the White Rabbit...or possibly the March Hare. His couture suit was impeccably cut, his long pale hair slicked back from the sharp lines of his face. He studied them with bright, assessing eyes.

Bez gulped audibly. "Kristof."

"Bez." He didn't take his eyes off Darius. "Perhaps you would care to explain why you brought a mundane to my club."

Bez coughed. "He's not a...that is, Darius is a friend." Her voice caught on the word. "I just thought—"

"Darius." Kristof peered at him a little closer. His eyes widened slightly. "Darius deCompostela? Fuck me, is that you?"

Darius cringed. Bez's jaw slackened. She turned to him. "D? Is there something you're not—"

The man snapped his fingers, and the room froze. Bez froze too, her mouth stuck around the _not_. Her eyes were an unnerving shade of white.

Darius blew out a breath. "Seriously?" He glowered at the other man. "What's it been, fifteen years? Your poker face hasn't improved."

Kristof met his glower with a sneer. "And you're still turning up where you don't belong. Fucking busybody."

"Two-bit stage magician."

"Cowboy."

"Heretic."

They glared at each other. Finally, Kristof's lips twitched. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

He extended a hand. After a moment's pause, Darius clasped it. "That it has."

"It's good to see you, D. Especially after, well." Kristof retrieved his hand and smoothed it over his hair. "I didn't even recognize you. I thought you didn't have dealings with the community anymore."

Darius shook his head. "I don't. Not usually. I'm here on a case."

"Ah, yes. The mundane detective, handling mundane problems." Kristof tsked. "Waste, if you ask me."

"Which I didn't." Darius glanced around the frozen club. His gaze settled on Bez. "Look, unfreeze this shit, would you? It's weird. And if you could do me a solid and make sure she doesn't remember your little outburst..."

Kristof gave him a Cheshire-esque grin. "Still hiding, are we?"

"Under every rock I can find."

The other man shook his head. Lips still twitching, he snapped his fingers again.

Movement resumed. Bez's eyes cleared. She coughed. "He's not a...that is, Darius is a friend." Her voice caught on the word. "I just thought—"

Kristof waved a hand. "Enough. Don't make me wait, witchling. Introduce me to your _friend_."

Bez winced. "Right. Of course. Sir." She took a deep breath. "Kristof, meet Darius deCompostela. Darius is one of our regulars at the Lounge. And Darius, this is Kristof Front. He owns the club."

Darius kept his face straight. "Nice establishment you have here Mr. Front."

Kristof's eyes glittered. "Please, call me Kristof. Welcome to Hex, Mr. deCompostela."

"Please, call me Darius."

Bez looked from one of them to the other. Her brow furrowed. "Have you two met already?"

Kristof gave her a strange look. "Why my dear, whatever would possess you to say that?" He gestured imperiously towards the bar before she could answer. "All this talk has parched my throat. Drinks, then. On the house."

Bez opened her mouth, closed it again. Darius shrugged. "Shall we?"

Kristof was already several steps ahead. The substantial crowd of patrons parted in front of him. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Chop-chop, children."

Bez's head was slightly tilted, her brow furrowed. She shook herself. "I guess we shall."

Kristof had already commandeered the bartender by the time they joined him. He favored them with a glance before focusing back on the ingredients going into the flashy Boston shaker. "This one's my own invention. Tanqueray, hibiscus nectar, a few other things, and then..."

The bartender poured in the final ingredient, set the shaker on the counter, and stood back. Kristof winked at them, then snapped his fingers. The shaker levitated into the air. A balletic flick of his wrist, and it began to shake. Scattered applause rose from the people around them.

Darius snorted. "Nice parlor trick."

Kristof grinned and winked. "I call it the Frontean Special."

Darius swallowed a chuckle. "Do you just want to show off, or might we actually get something to drink?"

Beside him, Bez sucked in a quiet breath. Kristof merely sniffed. "Everyone's a critic." All the same, he snapped his fingers again. The shaker lowered back to the bar. The bartender cracked it open and strained the cloudy pink liquid inside into three waiting glasses.

Darius accepted one with a nod, and sipped. He barely managed to keep from wincing. Too sweet. He set the glass back on the bar and pretended to study the club's decor.

"So." Kristof's voice was liquid smooth. "Darius deCompostela. What causes you to darken the door of my humble tavern?" His tone was light—presumably for Bez's benefit—but when Darius looked over, his eyes were serious.

Bez spoke up before he could answer. "He's here about the murders last week. The ones on the news."

Kristof's glass froze on its way to his mouth. "Is he, now?"

Darius winced. Bez continued hurriedly. "He's legit, I swear. He's not just a regular at the Lounge." She shot Darius an apologetic look. "He's a regular at the House Of Hoodoo, too. Been coming for years, and not just for the tourist-y shit. He's the real deal."

Kristof sucked on his lower lip for a moment. He glanced at the people drinking around them. Then he set his drink on the bar. "Come with me." He started back into the crowd.

Darius glanced at Bez. She shrugged. "Shall we?"

They followed Kristof to a secluded corner, half-hidden behind a thick velvet curtain. He jerked his head at the couple already occupying the small violet banquette inside. "Vamoose."

They took one look at him, stood, and left without a word.

Kristof sat down on one end of the banquette, nodded to the spot beside him. Darius took it, only to realize there was no room for Bez. Before he could offer her his seat, she lowered herself to his lap. He could only imagine the look on his face, because she quickly adjusted until she was perched on the very edge of his knee.

Darius resisted the urge to fidget, and turned to Kristof. "So?"

Kristof's pale hands twisted in his lap. "Apologies for the abruptness, but you must understand, this is no subject for bar-side conversation."

Darius nodded. "Point taken. What do you know?"

"Not much." Kristof grimaced. "But what I've heard isn't pretty." He glanced at Bez.

Her face was hard. "I can take it."

He nodded, and lowered his voice. "It happened the night of the new moon. Word is, the entire coven was massacred during their Esbat. We have a few witches with the police force. According to them, the responding officers said it looked like the work of a wild animal."

Bez shuddered. Darius kept his eyes on Kristof. "And what do you think?"

Kristof shifted. "I think when magic is dark enough, it can look like anything it wants."

A chill slithered down Darius' spine.

Bez hissed. "There's only one witch in San Francisco with access to that kind of magic. Doesn't seem like much of a mystery to me."

Kristof looked uncomfortable. "Careful, witchling. Until we know anything for sure, no one is to move against her. Terrible things are usually done with the best of intentions." His voice lowered. "Our community knows that better than most."

Bez scowled and looked away.

Darius didn't speak. Something Georgia had said nagged at him: _the kind of magic I do...they wouldn't understand._ Was she the witch in question? He wanted to help her, but he was hardly prepared to take on the entire witching guild to do it.

Besides, what if Bez was right?

A queasy feeling massed in the pit of his stomach. If he'd learned anything over the years, it was that there were no limits when it came to good-old-fashioned human depravity. Some people were just born bent. Add to that a healthy dose of unstable magic, and the results could be...well, catastrophic.

He kept his mouth shut, but the queasy feeling intensified.

Kristof sighed, oblivious to the direction his mind had wandered. "There's something else you should know. It may not be relevant, but it probably bears mentioning anyway."

Darius struggled to rein in his thoughts. "All right."

Kristof opened his mouth.

At that moment, an unnatural hush fell over the club. Bez sat a little straighter, craned her neck towards the door. The candles in the art deco chandelier flared from purple to green. The speakers crackled. The ambient death-jazz gave way to heavy steel guitar and throbbing bass.

Bez sucked a breath through her nose. Kristof stiffened. Darius didn't need to look to guess what was happening.

Georgia Clare had arrived.

# CHAPTER SEVEN

#

Georgia stood still for a moment.

The song she'd manifested poured through Hex's invisible speakers: _Guns_ , by All Them Witches. The familiar grinding guitar was a tonic for her strained nerves.

It hadn't been easy, wrangling a location for the night's anchor site. In fact, she was pretty sure what little goodwill she'd still possessed was officially gone. Judging from the hostile looks aimed her way, she wouldn't be replenishing it anytime soon.

Hopefully the night would be worth it.

Georgia squared her shoulders and strode out onto the crowded dance floor. Clubgoers scrambled out of her way, at the same time managed to look down their noses at her as she passed. Claustrophobia tightened her chest. Georgia forced herself to keep breathing.

She hated places like this. Always had, but that hatred had increased over the years. She'd crossed nearly everyone in the room at one time or another. If someone were to slip a _quietus_ spell into her drink when she wasn't looking, she doubted anybody would ask too many questions.

By the time she reached the bar, activity had more or less resumed. Minus a few wary glances, everyone seemed to be trying their best to ignore her. Normally, that would suit her just fine. Not tonight, however. Tonight, she had questions to ask.

Georgia fixed her eyes on the bartender and silently willed him to look in her direction. He didn't. She sighed, and rapped her knuckles on the bar. "Yo! Got money to spend over here."

The bartender grudgingly made his way over. "What'll it be?" His tone was almost polite.

Georgia pasted what she hoped was a friendly look on her face. "Bourbon, please. Middle-shelf. Neat."

The bartender acknowledged the order with a grunt. She thought she saw his lip curl just before he turned to the bottles behind him.

By the time he turned back around with her shot, Georgia had successfully smoothed down her hackles. She accepted the glass with a polite nod. "Thanks."

The bartender started to leave.

"Wait!"

He turned back to her, a bored look on his face. "Something else?"

Georgia fumbled. "Yes, I, um...that is, I was hoping I might ask you a couple questions." She didn't wait for him to refuse. "I mean, there have been some strange things going on lately. I was wondering if maybe you'd heard anything..."

The bartender regarded her with an expression of open disgust. He shook his head, and retreated back down the bar.

Georgia sighed, and took a sip of her bourbon. The fiery trial it seared down her throat was as close to real warmth as she'd felt all evening. The back of her neck prickled with the unmistakable sensation of being watched. When she turned to look, however, no one met her eyes.

Georgia sighed again, and scanned the room. She couldn't see through the shadows in the corners, but one figure caught her attention. Hope flared in her chest. An old covener—she couldn't remember his name. They hadn't parted on bad terms. Maybe he would talk to her.

Georgia drained the last of the bourbon and set the empty glass on the bar.

"Hello, Georgia."

Georgia flinched. Damn it. Of all the people she'd least wanted to see. She kept her friendly mask firmly in place, and turned to the man who had come up behind her. "Hey, Kristof."

His too-pale features were every bit as striking as she remembered. He cocked his head. "Haven't seen you in a while."

Georgia ground her teeth. "Yeah, funny thing; it's almost impossible to find out the anchor sites for this place nowadays. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Kristof shrugged with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What can I say? My patrons appreciate discretion."

Georgia ignored the jab. "Look, I'm not here to cause problems. Really. I'm just looking for some information."

Kristof frowned. "You must be joking. This is an upscale establishment, not a...a..." He shook his head, as if to dispel whatever it was he'd been thinking. "Surely there's a more appropriate venue for...whatever it is you think you're doing."

Georgia lowered her voice. "Come on, Kris, cut a girl a break. You must have heard about those murders last week. I just want to find out what happened."

Kristof's eyes narrowed.

Georgia leaned forward. "What is it?"

Kristof opened his mouth.

"Georgia."

_Shit_. Georgia closed her eyes briefly. She'd know that baritone anywhere. She took a deep breath, and turned.

Darius stood—no, towered—behind her. On his arm was a waifish young woman with a face full of piercings and long blonde dreads. She looked familiar. Seeing Georgia watching, she gave his arm a squeeze.

_Bez_. Georgia's stomach hardened. She clenched her jaw, then unclenched it again. "Got to hand it to you, deCompostela. You have quite the bag of tricks up your sleeve."

Bez's eyes widened. She whirled on Darius. " _This_? _This_ is your client?"

"Bez." There was an unmistakable note of warning in Darius' voice.

Bez clamped her mouth shut. Her eyes darted towards the exit. Darius' arm visibly tightened around hers.

Kristof was looking at Darius, his eyes even narrower than before. "Is this true?" He jerked his chin at Georgia. "Is she with you?"

Georgia held her breath.

Darius spoke carefully. "I'm here on her behalf." He paused. "But we didn't come here together."

Georgia's stomach wrenched. She lifted her chin. "Thanks a lot."

A wince crossed his face, so fast she almost missed it. Kristof turned back to her. "In that case, I think it's time you were leaving."

Georgia slammed a hand down on the bar. This time, she was only dimly aware of the silence that fell over the club. "Damn it, don't you understand? People are _dead_. My coven is _dead_."

Kristof's lip curled. "Please. Don't expect me to believe you actually cared about them. What was this, your fifth coven? Sixth?"

Sixth. Georgia ground her teeth. Frustrated tears burned the corners of her eyes. "It doesn't matter." She stared down at the glossy wood bar. "What happened to them, going out that way...they didn't deserve it."

Kristof didn't answer. Georgia peeked up at him. His face had softened a fraction. "You know, I think that's one thing we actually agree on."

Georgia leaned forward. "Then _help_ me. Aren't you interested in finding out who did this?"

Kristof rocked back on his heels and studied her, his expression unreadable.

Bez's eyes were locked on Georgia. She spoke up, her voice cold. "I think we all know who did this."

The words landed like a slap. Georgia stared. "You can't be serious." She scanned the faces around her. No returned her gaze. Her eyes landed on Darius.

He wouldn't meet them.

She was going to be sick. Georgia drew herself as straight as she could. "Fuck all you people." She'd meant it as a challenge. It came out a whisper.

Kristof lifted his chin almost imperceptibly. Bouncers materialized from the darkened corners of the room. Georgia found her voice again. "Don't bother. I'm leaving. There's nothing here for me, anyway."

Darius finally spoke, a pained look on his face. "Ms. Clare..."

Georgia shook her head and pushed away from the bar. She veered wide to avoid him, and headed towards the back door.

"Georgia!"

She flipped her middle finger over her shoulder and kept walking. No one tried to stop her.

She pushed through the glamour surrounding the exit, and shoved the door open. Next thing she knew, she was in a narrow alley. She allowed the door to slam shut behind her. It immediately vanished into the aged brick wall.

Georgia sank against the side of the building. She bent forward and rested her hands on her knees. Fuck, was she stupid. What the hell had convinced her waltzing into a floating club was a good idea? She knew her history. She knew what people thought of her.

She should have known better.

Something that sounded suspiciously like a door opening echoed through the alley. Georgia hastily straightened and swiped her hands over her eyes. A second later, Darius was standing next to her. His eyes looked glazed, his face heavy. He shook himself hard.

Georgia pressed her lips together and turned.

"Wait." The word sounded slurred.

Georgia ignored the twinge in her chest. "Forget it."

"Georgia, wait."

A hand closed around her arm. Georgia yanked free. Darius caught her again, this time spun her around to face him. She hadn't expected him to shake off the glamour so fast. Unbalanced, she stumbled headlong into his solid chest. He stiffened, then his arms closed around her.

Her vision blurred. She'd always known the witching world didn't want her. Even so, she'd always maintained a tiny flicker of hope that maybe, someday, she might carve out a place for herself.

It was stupid. Hell, she didn't even like most of the people in there. She certainly didn't understand them, any more than they understood her. The entire time she'd lived in the city, there was only one witch who had ever tried to connect with her. Only one witch who had given her a chance.

Just her luck, that witch had gone and gotten herself murdered.

Georgia squeezed her eyes shut. No good. All she saw was the same grotesque still life that had been haunting her all week. _Study In Carnage_. She tried to breathe. Thick metallic sweetness hit her tongue.

She didn't realize she was shaking until she felt Darius' hand slide down her back. A low sound rumbled in his chest. The echoes of it reverberated deep inside her, in a place words couldn't reach.

It took her a moment to realize he was shaking too; tight, controlled shivers she would have missed if they'd been farther apart. Georgia's head reeled. She didn't get this man. One minute he all but threw her to the wolves, the next...what? He felt her pain?

She hesitated, then awkwardly laid her cheek against his chest.

She lost track of how long they stood like that. Gradually, she became aware of other things. Of his large, impossibly gentle hand. Of the cool, subtle slide of his suit jacket beneath her palm. The fabric smelled expensive, but she kept catching a whiff of something else, too; something richly organic. She'd never smelled anything quite like it. She furrowed her forehead. Then it struck her.

It was _him_. Darius deCompostela, distilled down to the essence. Georgia closed her eyes. The tightness in her chest eased.

Several more minutes passed before she opened her eyes again and stepped back. It took several more before her head was settled enough to think. At last, she forced herself to look up. "You really don't want me around, do you?"

Darius didn't answer.

She tried again, her voice stronger. "Why? And don't try to feed me that Joe-Pesci-Lethal-Weapon line again. I'm a big girl. I can smell bullshit like that a mile away." Something occurred to her. "It's because I'm a witch, isn't it?"

His dark eyes were impossible to read. "This is your world, Ms. Clare, not mine. But as long as I'm working this case, let me be clear: we're not partners. I don't work with people like you."

She tried to be angry, but couldn't quite manage it. "I won't forget that."

He didn't look away. "I know."

Georgia swallowed hard. She turned and started down the alley again.

This time, Darius didn't try to stop her.

† † †

Some nights, he just needed Ray.

Darius sank back into his worn wingback chair. Outside, the nighttime city hummed softly. Inside, Ray Charles' raspy voice filled the tiny apartment. Darius sang along under his breath.

"All to myself alone..."

The speakers of his old Zenith phonograph crackled pleasantly. Darius smiled to himself. Some things were hard to beat. Records were one of them. If he got the volume and the pitch just right, it was almost like good old Ray was singing a private concert in his living room.

His eye drifted to a framed photograph on top of the Zenith. A familiar, russet-skinned face smiled back at him. Even in the worn photo, crows' feet crinkled around the woman's bright, intelligent eyes.

Nights like this, it was far too easy to remember the evenings he'd spent in her living room. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the threadbare couch cushions against the backs of his legs, could almost smell the freshly-baked Snickerdoodles. He could almost hear Ray's voice, scratchy through the bum speaker on her tabletop record player.

All to myself alone...

The music seeped into his battle-weary soul. Darius closed his eyes. Deep inside him, something unclenched.

Did Georgia Clare like records?

Darius' eyes popped open. Where the hell had that come from? His shoulders started to tense. He shook himself. _No. None of that._ He was supposed to be relaxing. Darius closed his eyes again.

Damn, but she'd smelled good.

Darius groaned. His mind was trying to torture him. He tried to think about something else. Anything else. Failed. He could still feel the soft weight of her lined up against him. Her scent lingered on his skin, on the hand he'd laid against her back.

A muscle tightened in his jaw. Darius blew out a laugh. It sounded more like a growl. He wasn't a monk, not by a long stretch, but hell if he could remember the last time he'd had a woman's scent on him. His world was cold. Hard. There wasn't much room for warm, soft things in it.

Dear god. Had he just thought of Georgia Clare as "soft"? It really had been a long time.

He paused, and Bez's voice echoed in his head. _I think we all know who did this._ He thought back to the expression on Georgia's face, to the sudden change in her aura. The usual vibrant, confident colors had instantly dulled to a pale, muddy brown.

Discouragement.

Confusion.

Hurt.

Her exterior might be denim and leather, but an aura never lied. In that instant, it had been all he could do to keep his hold on Bez's arm. He'd wanted nothing more than to push her away, take back what she'd said.

But he hadn't. He hadn't even tried. And the look in Georgia's eyes when she'd realized he wouldn't made him feel worse than he had in a long time.

A chill whispered over his bare shoulders. Darius sighed. Enough of all that. Right now he had bigger problems. Clearly, he'd waited too long to re-do the saltwater wards around his apartment. When he opened his eyes, he found himself nose-to-nose with a pig-tailed little girl.

Darius sighed, and she cocked her head. Studied him.

He waited.

It started with a patch of what looked like roadburn on the side of her face. The patch spread. Soon it extended down her neck, vanishing under her My Little Ponies t-shirt. One small shoulder dislocated with a dull pop. Darius tightened his jaw. Something else snapped, and the girl's chest collapsed.

Darius pushed to his feet, stepped through the tiny figure and headed for where his suit jacket lay spread on the bed. He searched one pocket, then the other. Then he went through his trousers. His motions grew increasingly desperate.

Finally, he threw the pants down. "Fuck!"

His sanctuary oil was nowhere to be found.

Bez. That was the only explanation. Darius saw red. She was always on him to embrace his "gift". She must have palmed the bottle when he wasn't paying attention.

He turned around again slowly, already dreading what he would see. Just as he'd feared, his tiny studio was teeming with translucent, mangled figures. Some of them were trying to talk. Most of them just stood, staring at him through the hollow places where their eyes had once been.

He shivered and turned his gaze back to the photo. The woman seemed to be watching him, too. Was it his imagination, or did her smile look a little sadder than it had before?

Darius tore his eyes away, and crossed the studio in two long strides. By the time he reached the kitchenette, he was shivering. He yanked open the freezer door and pulled out the bottle of Grey Goose he saved for special occasions. Ice crystals clung to the sides.

Darius pulled out the stopper and started to drink.

# CHAPTER EIGHT

#

She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept so badly.

Georgia sat hunched over a corner table in the coffee shop across from her building. In front of her, a coffee drink she couldn't pronounce was sending hazelnut-scented steam into her face. The file she'd lifted from Inspector Chandler's desk lay open in front of her. Georgia narrowed her eyes at it and tried to read.

The words bled together on the page.

She slumped back with a sigh. She was wasting time. She should be formulating a plan, deciding on her next course of action after the spectacular clusterfuck Hex had turned out to be. Something was hunting her, for god's sake. It could be watching her now, .waiting for the chance to strike.

Instead, all she could think about was Darius.

In fact, ever since she arrived home, he was all she'd been able to think about. Something had happened in that alley. Hell if she knew what it was. All she knew was the second he'd touched her, a tiny, forgotten ember had flickered to life. It had blazed all night.

Cheeks hot, Georgia leaned forward again and forced herself to focus on the file. The first page was a report by the responding officer. No news there. Georgia flipped to the next page. Statements from the neighbors. Page after that: more statements. She flipped a few more pages.

The first crime scene photo caught her entirely off guard. Georgia glimpsed a disfigured body lying in a pool of blood, then slammed the file shut. Her fingers curled around the edges of the stained manila envelope. She resisted the urge to hurl it across the shop.

The next instant, the folder was gone. Georgia started. Before she could speak the chair across from her pulled out with a screech. Darius dropped into it unceremoniously.

He ignored the look on her face, opened the file and scanned the first page. "Hmm. Cops don't have much, do they?"

Georgia sucked in a deep breath.

Darius glanced over the top of the folder. "Don't make a scene." He took in her slumped shoulders and exhaustion-induced pallor. His brow furrowed. "You all right?"

"Fine," Georgia replied tightly. He didn't need to know she hadn't slept. He was a detective, after all.

He might figure out why.

Darius shrugged. His eyes dropped again, skimmed back and forth across the report. He turned the page.

Georgia crossed her arms while he read. She tried to muster up some righteous anger. The only emotion she could lock onto was a vague sense of panic. "You can't do this."

Darius didn't look up. "Do what?"

The panic sharpened. " _This_. You can't just cut me out of the picture. I won't—" she swallowed hard. "I won't tolerate it."

He did look up at that. One eyebrow arched. "Oh, you won't?"

She couldn't draw enough air to answer. She simply nodded.

He turned back to the file. "Don't get your broomstick in a twist, witch. I'm not here to cut you out of the picture."

All the arguments she'd been formulating suddenly evaporated. "You're not?"

"I'm not." He glanced at her again, lifted the file briefly. "If I was, I would have just taken this and left."

Georgia exhaled heavily. Darius had already returned his attention to the file. He didn't look up again, just kept turning pages in silence. She could tell when he reached the crime scene photos. His eyebrows lifted, then drew together. He glanced up at her, looked back down. One by one, he flipped the pages. His face grew steadily harder.

Finally, he shut the folder and laid it on the table between them. He didn't speak right away. Georgia didn't either. She folded her hands in front of her and waited.

Finally, Darius blew out a breath. "Like I said. Not much there."

Georgia shook her head. "No."

Several more minutes dragged by. His eyes burned into hers. "I think it's time you and I had a little come-to-Jesus talk."

Georgia crossed her arms again, a meager defense against the sudden queasiness in her stomach. "I don't believe in Jesus."

Darius leaned forward. A frustrated sound rumbled in his throat. "Damn it, Georgia. I already told you what I needed from you. I told you to tell me everything, even if it didn't seem important. After last night, I did some asking around. Turns out you're at the top of every witch's shit list from here to the South Bay. What else don't I know?"

Georgia bit the inside of her cheek.

"I want to help you. Fuck if I know why." Darius ran a hand over the smooth dome of his head. "But as a rule, I never go into a situation without knowing all the facts. People get dead doing that. So I'll say it again." He settled back in his chair. "Talk to me."

Georgia contemplated walking out. Then her eye drifted across the street. A breeze ruffled the Hefty bag she'd taped over her ruined window.

Her heart sank. She did need help. This was the kind of problem a person could drown in. And right now, Darius was the only one holding out a life preserver.

She slumped back in her chair too. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

Surprise flared in his eyes. It disappeared almost before she'd seen it, and his usual stoic mask slid back into place. He steepled his fingers. "Why do the witches hate you so much?"

Of course he would ask that. Georgia hesitated. How much to tell him? She leaned forward again. "Do you know what black magic is?"

His expression didn't change. "Tell me."

Georgia thought for a moment. "I guess at its simplest, it's...base magic. White magic focuses on enlightenment. Ascension. Transcending the material world and tapping into the highest vibrations of energy." She waved a hand. "You know. Light."

Darius pursed his lips. "I take it black magic doesn't have much use for light."

"It's not quite that simple." Georgia shifted. "White magic focuses _only_ on the higher vibrations. That's where white witches draw their power. It's all well and good, but it has its limits." Her lips curved. "Black witches draw strength from all levels of vibration. All energy is sacred, and can be harnessed. In theory at least, that means a black witch's potential for power is limitless."

Darius tapped his fingers together. "So the guild hates you...why? Because you're a black witch with unlimited power at your fingertips?"

"No." Georgia sighed. "I mean, yes, I'm a black witch—a damn good one, thank you—and I'm sure that scares the piss out of plenty of people, but that's not why they hate me."

Darius waited.

"It was my mom." Georgia swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. "She led San Francisco's first black coven, back before I was born. See, the thing about black magic, it doesn't play so well with others. White witches think it's selfish and perverse, gray witches think it's hopelessly unbalanced, and green witches...well, they think anything that's not earth magic is a worthless waste of time."

Darius' lips twitched. "Got it."

"Right. So anyway, my mom got permission from the San Francisco Witching Council to form a black coven. A place where black witches could commune with each other and practice their magic without discrimination."

Darius' eyes roved over her face. "I take it that didn't end so well."

Georgia laughed weakly. "Score one for the detective. No, it didn't end so well. Apparently, some of the others weren't satisfied with just gathering under the dark moon and dancing widdershins around a statue of the Triple Goddess. They started dabbling in death magic, gathering strength and stockpiling power in secret."

Darius whistled quietly.

Georgia nodded. "It was as bad as it sounds. Magic is meant to be worked, not stored. If you keep it too long, eventually it turns necrotic, and will rot out whoever tries to use it. Not just their body, but their soul. Their essence. It destroys the core of who they are."

Darius grimaced. "I'm guessing the Witching Council didn't look too kindly on that."

"You could say that." Georgia looked down. "Black witches tend not to get the benefit of a trial when things go bad. The Council ordered a cleansing of the entire coven. A pogrom, essentially. My mother barely escaped the city with her life. Of all the black witches, she was the only survivor."

She closed her eyes. Her mother had talked about the other witches throughout her childhood, so much that she felt like she knew them. There was Bill Bevel, who could transmogrify into a cricket during the new moon. Antonella Peters, who could scry the future in a cup of Lapsang Suchong. They hadn't all been guilty of the crimes laid at their feet.

In the end, it hadn't mattered.

She opened her eyes again. "The Council chased Mom all the way to Auburn, out near Sacramento. They gave her a reprieve when they found out she was pregnant. With me. It caused a massive rift in opinion. Even today, there are plenty of witches around here who think we both should have died." She curled her lip. "Never suffer a black witch to live, I guess."

Darius didn't say anything. He just looked at her, his face yet another mask she couldn't read.

Georgia waited a few minutes, then sighed loudly. "Say something, would you?"

Darius stood, picked up the manila envelope and tucked it under his arm. "I think I have an idea who might know something about this."

Georgia blinked. His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, then he started towards the exit. Georgia watched him go, deflated a little with every step he took.

He stopped at the door, and turned back to her. "Well? You coming?"

† † †

He really should have stopped off for more sanctuary oil.

Darius kept his hands firmly in his pockets as they strode up Haight Street. The neighborhood was quiet for a major thoroughfare; all the vintage shops, vegan restaurants, and psychedelic dives of Haight-Ashbury still several blocks away. Lower Haight's trendy clubs and sushi bars gave way to tree-lined sidewalks and stunning Victorian row houses, brilliantly hued and lovingly upkept.

Darius didn't see any of it.

The neighborhood seemed to recede behind a wall of etheric noise. Six blocks up, His head felt ready to explode. People, objects, buildings swam around him in a single nauseating layer. Light, sound, color—he could barely distinguish between them anymore. He let Georgia pull ahead and kept his eyes on her back, his one constant in the chaos.

As if she could sense his struggle, she paused and looked back. Her concerned expression swam in his vision. "Are you all right? You don't look so good."

Darius managed a nod. "Fine. We're almost there."

Georgia grumbled something under her breath and started walking again. Darius sucked down a fortifying breath and followed, resisted the urge to touch the vial of salt he'd tucked under his shirt. It clinked softly against his St. Michael medallion, as if the two were jockeying for position. Its cord dug into his neck. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it was growing heavier. Impossible, of course.

But then, stranger things had happened.

At least it was keeping the spirits at bay. Not that "at bay" was the same as "gone". The distinction grew increasingly obvious with each passing step.

Another block, and Georgia turned around again. "Seriously, you look like shit. What's going on?"

Darius somehow shook his head without throwing up. "Nothing." He nodded at a house just up the sidewalk. "This is it."

Georgia was mercifully silent as they made their way up the steps to the small front stoop. There was no bell to speak of. Darius weaved forward and rapped loudly on the door. Then he rocked back on his feet and closed his eyes.

Beside him, Georgia sighed. "Fine. You don't want to tell me what's going on with you. Will you at least tell me what we're doing here?"

Darius was still deciding how to answer when footsteps sounded inside the house. He opened his eyes in time to see the door swing open.

Kristof blinked out at them. Seeing Darius, his eyebrows went up. Then he noticed Georgia. His brows drew together. His lips thinned. He started to close the door again.

Darius planted his foot just inside the threshold. "Don't be an asshole. We're just here to talk."

Kristof glowered at him. "Move your foot, D. I'd hate to ruin your shoe. Looks Italian."

"It is." Darius glowered right back. "Come on, you can't be serious right now. The Kristof I knew was never this much of a pussy."

Georgia's jaw dropped.

Twin spots of color appeared on Kristof's pale cheeks. "And the Darius I knew wouldn't have trucked with a black witch. Or any witch, for that matter." He leaned forward and peered into Darius' eyes. "She hasn't bespelled you, has she?"

Georgia held up a hand. "Hold on. Time out. You two _know_ each other?" She turned to Darius. "I suppose you just forgot to mention this?"

A loud buzzing in his head almost drowned out her voice. Darius answered through clenched teeth. "Must have slipped my mind."

Georgia humphed.

Darius' head was pounding. He kept his eyes fixed on Kristof. "Look, you believed what she was telling you last night. I know you did. Ms. Clare isn't your enemy in this." The buzzing grew louder, and the pounding in his head worsened. His vision started to tunnel. "Just let us in. Please."

Kristof stared at him, then swore softly. He stepped to the side. "Hurry up and move your asses, before someone sees you."

Darius all but shoved Georgia inside. He stumbled into the narrow front hallway after her. Kristof checked that she wasn't watching, then made a quick symbol with his hands in the open doorway. Darius caught his eye. "Thanks."

Kristof rolled his eyes. "Don't get all mushy on me. I still can't believe I'm helping you." He shut the door.

Instantly the buzzing vanished, along with the ache in his head. Darius exhaled. "Thank god."

Kristof smirked. "I've been called worse." He edged around Darius with a crook of his finger and loped down the hallway. "Follow me, kiddies."

Darius took a step forward, and promptly bumped into Georgia. She frowned up at him, arms crossed. "I'm not moving until you tell me what the fuck is going on."

_Damn it_. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't bullshit me, deCompostela." Georgia peered into his face. "You think I didn't see what Kristof just did? I'm no druid, but I'd bet my besom that was a protection ogham. You looked like shit the entire way here, now all of a sudden you're fine." Her brow furrowed. "Was something hassling you?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Darius swallowed hard and avoided Georgia's eyes, all too aware of Kristof watching them from the end of the hall. "Look, one thing at a time. Would you please...?"

Georgia's face hardened. She pressed her lips together, gave a stiff nod, and turned on her heel.

Darius bit back a groan, and followed her.

Kristof ushered them into a small, dark parlor. It was a study in texture, painted a million subtle shades of red. A fireplace was set into one wall, a series of dark, faintly disturbing pictures propped on the gothic mantelpiece. An unexpectedly whimsical checkerboard-patterned ottoman sat between three burnished leather club chairs.

Darius snorted inwardly. _How is a raven like a writing desk?_

Kristof settled in the chair nearest the fireplace. "Might as well get this over with. Sit down, both of you, before you make me nervous."

Darius glanced at Georgia. She ignored him, stepped around one of the two remaining chairs and sat. The leather creaked pleasantly under her weight.

Darius sat too. The leather protested loudly. He shifted. "Anyway, it's like I said. We're here for information."

Kristof sat bolt upright. "Now, wait just a minute. You said you were here to talk. No one mentioned anything about information."

"He's right," Georgia muttered.

Darius scowled at her out of one side of his mouth. "Don't you start. This trail we're following is already a week old. The longer we sit here bickering, the colder it's going to get."

Kristof drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. His eyes narrowed.

Georgia leaned forward. "Look, Kristof. I know we're not the best of friends. There's...history...between us. I'm not saying there's not."

Kristof pursed his lips. Darius looked from one of them to the other. _History?_

"But deCompostela is right. People have died here. _Our_ people." Georgia sat back again. "If ever there was a time to set aside history and work together, I'd say this is it."

Kristof didn't speak right away. His eyes moved over Georgia's face, sharply assessing. She met them without flinching. Finally, he sat back too. He spread his hands. "You have questions? Ask."

Darius straightened. "Last night, you were about to tell me something. You said it might not be relevant, but I should know anyway. What was it?"

Kristof's eyes flashed briefly back to Georgia, then he nodded. "There have been rumors going around. Strange disappearances within the guild."

Georgia groaned. "That's your big clue? Witches disappear all the time. We both know that. What's to say they didn't just move to the mountains to commune with nature for a while?"

Kristof's eyes turned to flint. "Obviously that's a possibility. But I have a feeling that's not the case." His lips peeled back from his teeth, a cross between a smile and a snarl. "You remember feelings, don't you _Ms. Clare_?"

Georgia bristled. Darius cut in. "Disappearances. Noted. Anything else you can tell us?"

Kristof's eyes dropped to half-mast. He stroked his lower lip and studied them. Then he turned to Darius. "Are you really sure about this, D? I mean, look at her. _Really_ look at her."

"I have." Darius met his gaze. "Anything else you can tell us?"

Kristof was silent. Darius could practically see the internal debate going on behind his eyes. Finally, he gave a short, sharp nod. "Mary Fiorelle. She's a white witch. We've known each other almost as long as you and I have. About a week ago, she dropped off the map."

Darius didn't speak.

Kristof blew out a breath. "Mary's got friends in this city, you know? Connections. Hell, she owns a condo. She wouldn't just up and leave." His brows drew together. "Come to think of it, the last anyone heard from her was a few days before Forest Hill. You don't think...?" He let the unfinished question hang in the air.

Darius waited.

Kristof sighed again, and stood. "Fine. Hang on a second. I must have her address here somewhere."

He retreated into the hallway, returned a few minutes later with a slip of paper. He held it out to Darius. Georgia plucked it from his fingers and peered down at the snarled handwriting. Darius cleared his throat. She pursed her lips, but passed it over.

He had to squint to read the scratchy longhand. "Pacific Heights. Little far to walk."

Georgia smirked. "Fortunately, I have Dolores back. Got a problem riding bitch, deCompostela?"

Kristof coughed into his hand. Darius grimaced. "No, so long as we agree never to call it that again."

# CHAPTER NINE

#

Miraculously, there was an open spot on the curb about a block from the address Kristof provided.

Georgia eased the Valk into it and kicked down the kickstand. She killed the engine and swung down to the sidewalk, tugging off her helmet as she went. She eyed Darius. "You know, if you're going to ride with me, we should really get you the right gear."

Darius dismounted gracefully from the rear of the bike, and gave her an ominous glare. "Don't even think about putting me in leather chaps."

Georgia choked. "Priceless though that mental image is, I was talking about a brain bucket." She tucked her own helmet under her arm. "Even a hard-head like you shouldn't be riding around without one. I might have another spare somewhere..."

"I'll take care of it." Darius looked up and down the street. "Let's get going. Don't need people to think we're loitering."

Georgia blinked. The thought hadn't even occurred to her. "Oh. Right."

They started up the gently graded hill towards Mary Fiorelle's address. Georgia took in the neighborhood around them. Bright, well-maintained Victorians, lush greenery lining the sidewalks, killer view of the glistening Bay on the other side of the hill; the area practically screamed "upwardly-mobile".

Maybe Kristof really was onto something. If _she_ owned a condo in Pacific Heights, she would never leave.

She glanced at Darius, winced. He was back to looking awful. A thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead, and his usually impeccable suit looked like he'd slept in it. He scanned the street in front of them, hands buried deep in his pockets. Every so often, he flinched.

Georgia pursed her lips, but didn't say anything.

Mary's address turned out to be a garden-level condo in a tidy Queen Anne-style Victorian. The house was painted a pale, cheerful yellow, the gingerbread trim complementary shades of cream and navy blue. All in all, it looked like a veritable dream home for a white witch.

Georgia muffled a snort and turned to Darius. "You're up, Sherlock Holmes."

He gave his head a slight shake and squinted up at the house. "Checks out from here. Come on." He started up the side steps.

Georgia trotted after him. "What are we looking for?"

"Anything out of place." He peered down the walkway alongside the house, leaned back and peered at the above windows. "Got a feeling we'll know it when we see it."

Georgia hovered behind him for a moment, then retreated a few steps and started around the front of the house.

Darius' voice echoed behind her. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Georgia didn't slow down. "Breaking in. Obviously."

"Damn it." After a second's hesitation, Darius followed. His eyes swept the surrounding street. "This is a terrible idea."

"When did you suddenly become Johnny Law?" Georgia skirted past a picturesque bay window to the condo's small private entrance. She ran her fingers along the top of the molding. Then she dropped to her knees and lifted a corner of the welcome mat.

"Johnny Law, my ass." Darius was back to scanning the street. "Do you have any idea how this will look if we get caught?"

"So let's not get caught." Georgia rifled through the potted plants around the door, finally straightened with a grunt. "Seriously? Who doesn't keep a spare key?"

"People who don't want their homes getting burgled, for one."

Fortunately, she had a contingency plan. Georgia closed a hand around the doorknob, an opening spell on the tip of her tongue. Before she could use it, Darius grabbed her arm.

"Stop."

Georgia froze. "What's wrong? Is someone watching?"

"No. Just...stop."

Georgia made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, released the doorknob and turned. "What the hell is wrong with—"

She stopped at the expression on his face. He was staring at the bay window, his mouth set in a grim line. "We need to get out of here."

Georgia followed his gaze. The window was empty. She turned back to him. "Start talking."

His mouth worked. "Mary Fiorelle is dead."

Georgia gaped. "What? Did you see something?" Another possibility occurred to her. Her stomach lurched. She lowered her voice. "Oh my god. Is she _in_ there?"

Darius shook his head. "No. Not inside. She's...somewhere else."

Georgia crossed her arms. "Okay. That leaves two ways you could know she's dead. Either you killed her—which I seriously doubt—"

Darius snorted. "Thank you."

"—Or you saw something. I thought you knew a lot about the demimonde for a mundane." Georgia narrowed her eyes.

Darius' face shuttered. He started back towards the stairs. "Forget it."

Enough was enough. Georgia tightened her jaw and darted around in front of him. Every cell in her body felt like it was vibrating. She ignored the dangerous look on his face and leaned forward until they were barely a breath apart.

"You're subversive, aren't you?"

† † †

Darius balked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Cut the bullshit." Georgia's green eyes filled his vision. Her voice sharpened. "My best friend is a medium. Did you really think you could hide it from me forever?"

Darius didn't answer. He waited for the panic he should be feeling. It never came. Something else stirred deep in his belly. Darius closed his eyes. He needed to get a goddamn grip. Georgia Clare was the kind of woman a man could sink into and never be heard from again.

"I'm guessing you pick up on energy."

He opened his eyes again. "What?"

Georgia moistened her lips. If she was aware of the war going on inside him, she gave no sign. "You see ghosts. And auras. And you're probably highly empathic, sensitive to other people's emotions." Her gaze wavered on his face, but she didn't look away. "Am I getting warmer?"

He certainly was. Darius finally put some much-needed space between them. "Guess you have me all figured out."

She ignored the deliberately snide tone he'd infused into his voice. "I assume Kristof knows. That's why he made that ogham: he was protecting you."

No point trying to deny it now. Darius nodded.

Georgia furrowed her brow. "I don't understand. If you were getting overwhelmed, why didn't you just shield?"

Darius' mind blanked. "Shield?"

Georgia stared at him. Astonishment, then comprehension, then finally sympathy suffused her face. "You don't even know what that is, do you?"

Darius stiffened. He didn't like where this was headed. "I don't do any hokey bullshit, if that's what you're asking. My...what I have. It's a condition. I'm managing it."

Georgia's eyes flashed, and Darius bit back a groan. He recognized that look. He was about to get the same lecture Bez always gave; about his "gift", how he was wasting it, his responsibilities...

A muscle ticked in her jaw. "You're not managing shit, Sherlock. Second sight isn't something you _have_ ; it's part of who you _are_. For all the time and energy you spend trying to ignore your 'condition', you could be learning to control it."

Darius blinked. He hadn't expected that.

She sighed. "Talk to me about Mary Fiorelle. So she's dead. Did she, you know, tell you anything?"

His stomach turned. Of course she had. Spirits always told him things, whether he wanted them to or not. "She went to the mountains. Apparently the guy she'd been seeing was cheating on her, and she had a cabin up off Skyline. She just wanted to get away for a bit." He paused. "Her car went off the road and down a cliff. No one's found it yet."

"Ouch." Georgia grimaced. "So she didn't have anything to do with any of this."

Darius shook his head. "Nope."

"Well, damn." Georgia raked a hand through her hair and studied him for a moment. "Look, what you can do...there's a reason people call it a gift. I swear, if you could just..." She shook her head. "Sorry. Forget it."

The walkway felt like it was closing in on him. Darius could only stare at her mutely. Georgia shook her head again, and stalked back towards the street.

# CHAPTER TEN

#

Her words weighed on him the rest of the night. The following morning, they were still replaying in his head. _You're not managing shit._

She was right, of course.

Darius sighed as he touched up the piles of salt in the corners of his office. One of these days, he was going to finally convince The Procyon's cleaning lady to leave them alone. Too-bright sunlight poured through the freshly scrubbed windows. Darius finally straightened with a wince, went over and shut the blinds.

_Second sight isn't something you_ have _; it's part of who you_ are _._

Darius shook off that thought. He'd be damned if he let some sick quirk define him. He'd worked hard to get where he was. To become who he was: a damn fine investigator. A professional. He gave no fucks and took no shit.

At least, he hadn't until now.

Darius groaned out loud and backed away from the window. On the way past his desk, he grabbed the little salt shaker he'd left on the edge. He started to return it to the wooden hutch next to the door.

Electricity hissed over his skin. Darius bit back a curse. The saltwater wards must be working overtime. Lord only knew how many spirits would be waiting for him when he left work. He'd been so off his game after his conversation with Georgia, he'd forgotten to stop for more sanctuary oil.

He grimaced and opened the hutch. It was going to be another long day.

He didn't have a chance to feel sorry for himself. Back on his desk, his cell phone buzzed. Darius sighed heavily, jammed the salt shaker back into the hutch, and retreated back across the room. He snatched up the phone and jammed his finger down on the answer-call button. "MacMillian and deCompostela, deCompostela—"

Georgia's urgent voice cut him off. "Darius? Where are you right now?"

Instantly, he came to attention. "At the office. Where are you? Did something happen?"

"What? No, no, nothing happened." He could practically hear her shaking her head. "I was just looking through that file again, and I—"

"You were what?" Darius blinked. "How? I took the file."

"Well, I took it back. So anyway, I was looking through it again, and I—"

"Damn it, Georgia..."

"God, would you listen?" Georgia took a deep breath. "I found something."

Darius didn't answer.

"Did you hear me? I said I found—"

"I heard you." Christ, his head was starting to hurt again, though he had a feeling this time it had nothing to do with spirits. "What kind of something?"

"A clue." Her voice fairly shook with excitement. "A real clue, Darius. I think this could actually be something."

"Okay." He paused, collected himself. "What is it?"

"Hell, no. If I tell you, you'll just try to check it out without me." The sound of papers rustling crackled over the speaker. "Do you have a pen? I'll give you the address."

She rattled off an obscure address just off Haight Street. Darius fumbled for a pen and Post-It note, and scribbled it down. "Got it."

"Think you can make it there in an hour?"

He mentally calculated the travel time. "Shouldn't be a problem."

"Great. I'll see you in an hour." Georgia hung up.

Darius scowled down at the phone, then slipped it in his pocket and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. He cast a last cursory eye around the office, strode through MacMillian's adjoining office and into the reception room. The hum from the wards grew louder.

He braced himself, and headed out.

† † †

She was late.

Darius shifted as he waited for the crosswalk light to change. Across Haight's busy intersection, the corner where Georgia had instructed him to meet her was empty. Darius swallowed a groan. His head felt like it was on fire, but at least it wasn't as bad as the other day. At least today he could still see straight.

The back of his neck prickled. Darius stiffened. He knew that feeling. Someone was watching him. He looked around until he found who it was: a cop, about half a block up, already moving in his direction.

Darius did groan then. Several of the other people waiting at the crosswalk glanced at him. Darius pressed his lips together.

Now the cop was close enough they could make eye contact. Darius held his breath. His hand itched, already primed to pull his wallet from his back pocket.

The cop's gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then he moved along.

Darius released the breath. The light changed, and he started across. He shook the lingering tension out of his shoulders. Fifteen years he'd been out of the hood, and he still couldn't quite escape the icy rush of adrenaline whenever police were around. He took another deep breath, released it again.

He reached the other side of the street, and glanced up and down the sidewalk. Georgia was still nowhere to be seen. Darius pulled his cell from his pocket and checked the time, huffed a frustrated sigh through his nose. Fifteen past the hour. He didn't know why he was surprised.

He struck what he hoped was a casual pose alongside the coffee shop on the corner. Aside from a few sidelong glances, no one paid him any attention. Darius slipped his hands in his pockets.

Ever since he could remember, he'd people-watched to pass time. When he was younger, everyone told him it was rude. He hadn't stopped; merely perfected his technique. Over the years, the ability to watch people without their realizing it had come in handy.

The Haight was always a trippy place to people-watch. Today was no different. There were the omnipresent tourists in their breathable clothes and sensible shoes. There were the street-dwellers, slouched against buildings or wandering the sidewalks in clouds of pot smoke. And there were the regulars, the pillars of the community: goths, steampunks, flower children, catching up during smoke breaks outside the cafes and vintage shops where they worked.

He first noticed the woman because she was none of those things.

If they'd been in The Financial District, he probably wouldn't have looked at her twice. Prim and pulled together in a skirt suit and pumps, a briefcase in one hand, she looked just like every other financier milling around Montgomery Street.

Well, almost.

She drew closer, looked up and caught his eye. Darius waited for her to cross the street. She didn't. Instead, she came to a stop directly in front of him. "Well? Are we doing this?"

Familiar green eyes snapped up at him from behind a pair of stern-looking glasses. Darius did a double-take. "Georgia?"

Georgia scowled. "Oh, please. I don't look _that_ different."

Hell yes, she did. Darius bit the inside of his cheek. Georgia Clare—motorcycle-riding, leather-addicted black witch—was wearing a business suit. And _glasses_. Her dark hair was pulled back in what should have been a severe style. On her, it was anything but.

It took him a moment to find his voice. "What the hell are you supposed to be?"

Georgia motioned him around the corner and started up the street. She was silent until the bustle and crowds faded behind them. Then she shrugged. "You've seen the way people in the community react to me. If people won't talk to Georgia Clare the witch, maybe they'll talk to Georgia Clare the accountant."

Darius blinked. "You're an accountant?" She looked more like a supermodel librarian. Not that he could tell her that.

Georgia rolled her eyes. "What, you thought being a witch was my day job? "

They stopped in front of a small, comfortable-looking Italianate row house. It could have been a twin of Kristof's place, only painted a stately muted blue with white trim. A white picket fence enclosed the small, shaded front yard.

Darius didn't move. "What are we doing here?"

"Remember I told you I found something in the file? I was going over the list of witnesses when I found a name: Abigail Davis. I thought it sounded familiar, then I remembered I used to be in a coven with her Aunt Marcie." Georgia cringed. "Something happened to her a few days before my coven...before the last Esbat. I don't know all the details, but rumor is she was murdered."

"Jesus." Darius rubbed his mouth. "So why would Abigail Davis's name be on a witness list from your coven's massacre?"

Georgia's eyes were sharp. "Exactly what I plan on asking her." She pushed open the gate and started up the narrow path between the shrubs. She glanced over her shoulder. "Coming?"

Darius pressed his mouth into a line, but followed her up the front steps. He shifted while she knocked.

A few minutes passed. Then came the sound of footsteps, and someone sniffing heavily. The door opened on a young woman. Her blonde hair looked like it hadn't been washed in a couple days, and deep bags shadowed her red-rimmed eyes. She stared out at them, face pale.

Georgia cleared her throat. "Hello, Ms. Davis? My name is Samantha Rice, with Cleargate Accounting. I'm sorry to bother you at such a difficult time, but there are a few things with your aunt's account my firm needs to clear up. I just have a few questions to ask you."

Abigail Davis sniffed again, and gave her a confused look. "I didn't know my aunt used an accounting firm."

"Really?" Georgia's brow furrowed. "She was one of our best clients. We were so sorry to hear about what happened." She hefted her briefcase. "May we come in? This won't take long."

"Oh...oh, yes. Of course..." The woman's eyes flicked to Darius.

Georgia's smile didn't waver. "This is Mr...Jordan. We've had some unfortunate run-ins with clients lately, what with the financial crisis and all." She waved a dismissive hand. "Just a few bad eggs, but it has the big men in suits all gung-ho about security."

"I'm sure." The woman gave Darius a watery smile, and stepped aside. "Come in."

Darius stared at Georgia's blazer-clad back as she went first. A black-witch-biker-accountant with a gift for lying. How the hell did he find these people? He hesitated, then trailed her into the old house's small front parlor.

Georgia was already making herself comfortable on a floral-print couch. "Again, Ms. Davis, I'm so sorry about your aunt. Thank you for taking the time to speak with us."

Darius cast a quick eye around the room. Dappled light filtered through a large bay window, illuminated the dust hovering in the still air. A faintly musty odor rose from the floral cushions when he sat down beside Georgia.

The woman perched on a matching chair across from the couch. "Please, call me Abbie," she murmured. "And it's no trouble. I'm actually glad for the company." She let out a humorless laugh.

Georgia hummed sympathetically. She lifted her briefcase onto the coffee table in front of them, opened it up and began rifling through the papers inside. "Okay, I'll try to make this quick. The IRS is going to require a tax return for your aunt's estate. That's this form here."

She dragged out a brick of paper and set it beside the briefcase with a _thud_. Darius winced. Abbie's eyes widened.

Georgia continued without stopping. "This is Form 706. It's used to calculate the estate tax imposed by Chapter 11 of the Internal Revenue Code. It's also used to compute the GST tax imposed by Chapter 13 on direct skips, but we don't need to worry about that right now."

Abbie swallowed visibly. "Okay."

Georgia peered at the top page over the rim of her glasses. "You'll need to include some paperwork when you send this in. A copy of the death certificate, documents regarding any litigations involving estate, unusual items on the return, evaluation of assets. You'll see an appraisal specialist for that one."

Abbie blinked a little faster with each passing second. "An appraisal specialist? How do I find—"

"Oh," Georgia snapped her fingers. "Before I forget, this could require a few more forms. I'm thinking Form 712, Form 2848, and Form 8821, at least. Oh, and if you need more time, you could always use Form 4768 to file for an extension."

Abbie's breathing sounded shallow. "I—"

"Now, it's crucial that this be done according to federal regulations." Georgia's expression was serious. "If it's not, the entire estate is subject to a federal lien, and the IRS could move to seize the property."

Abbie's eyes bugged. "Are you serious?" She stared down at the paper-strewn coffee table. "My god. Aunt Marcie and I never discussed any of this."

Georgia leaned forward, the picture of concern. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I just assumed you were your aunt's executor. If you're not, then none of this is your responsibility. You don't have anything to worry about."

Abbie looked up hopefully. "I don't?"

Darius held his breath.

"You don't." Georgia leaned back again, picked up a pen and notepad, and pushed her glasses further back on her nose. She looked up at Abbie and smiled. "Now, if you could just give me the executor's contact information, we can be out of your hair."

The hope drained from Abbie's face. "I...I don't know it. That is, I don't know who it is."

Darius nearly cringed for her. Georgia set her pen down. "Did your aunt leave a will?"

An unhealthy flush started to rise in Abbie's cheeks. "I don't know. I don't think so. Is that bad?"

Georgia winced dramatically. "It's...complicated. If your aunt died without leaving a will, then we're most likely looking at probate. The court will step in to decide what's done with the estate." Georgia spread her hands. "They would name their own executor, and everything would be held in trust until a decision is reached." She grimaced. "Unfortunately, you wouldn't have access to any part of the estate until that happened. Tell me, do you have someplace else you can stay?"

Darius' head was spinning. He glanced at Abbie Davis. Her face was bright red. Her chest rose and fell in a quick, fluttering motion. She looked ready to burst into tears.

Georgia took off her glasses. "Let's just take a moment, shall we? I realize this is probably all very overwhelming."

Abbie nodded. "Thank you. I could use a moment."

Georgia smiled encouragingly. "Of course. Maybe if we had something to drink? Some tea, perhaps? I've always found tea helps things like this go a little easier."

Abbie nodded again, and rose to her feet. "I'll go see if I can find Aunt Marcie's kettle."

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

#

Darius deCompostela was many things, but "dainty" was definitely not one of them.

Georgia watched as he balanced his massive form on the edge of the couch, at the same time attempted to fit his long, thick fingers around the filament-thin handle of his teacup. Her lips twitched. She quickly moved her own teacup in front of her mouth.

Darius finally ceded defeat and lowered the cup to his knee. Georgia wiped the smirk off her face free and did the same. She returned her focus to the woman across from them. "So, Abbie. Were you and your aunt close?"

"Not really." Abbie's voice wavered, and she took a sip of her tea. "She was letting me stay here while I went to school. We had only just started getting to know each other."

She looked ready to burst into tears. Georgia winced, and quickly changed the subject. "Where do you go to school?"

Abbie took another sip. "San Francisco State."

"No kidding? That's where I took my CPA exam."

Abbie's face brightened a bit. "Really?"

"Absolutely. Go, Gators." Georgia lowered her voice. "Look, I know it's none of my business, but have the police, you know, learned anything? About what happened?"

Abbie shook her head. "No. Nothing." She stared into her cup and blinked hard.

Georgia took a deep breath. It was now or never. "Do you think what happened to your aunt could have been related to what happened in Forest Hill last week?"

Abbie's head jerked up. "What are you talking about?"

Georgia forced herself not to lean forward. She shrugged. "I have some friends with the police department, is all. They mentioned you were seen in Forest Hill the night of the...you know."

"They just mentioned that, did they?" Abbie set her cup on the coffee table with a clatter. Her eyes narrowed. "You're not really an accountant, are you?"

"Of course I'm an accountant." Georgia kept her voice even. This was not the reaction she'd hoped for. She tried to catch Abbie's eye. "We just want to find out what happened- to Marcie, to those people in Forest Hill...don't you want to know what happened?"

Abbie pressed her lips together. "I think we're done here." She stood. "I'd like you to leave."

A few minutes later, Georgia found herself back on the front porch, Darius at her side. Abbie gave them one last, hard look, then slammed the door.

Darius stared at it for a moment, then turned and started down the steps. "That went well."

Georgia adjusted the clasp on her briefcase and followed. "Her aura. Did you see anything?"

Darius shrugged. "Hard to say. I picked up plenty of negativity, but then, the woman just lost her aunt. And she definitely didn't appreciate being played."

Georgia opted to ignore that last part. She followed him out the gate, then started back towards Haight Street. Something prickled against the back of her neck. For a moment, it almost felt like someone was watching them. But when she turned back and gazed up at the house, all the windows were empty.

Darius fell into step behind her. "Where to now?" Georgia glanced up at him, and he shrugged. "Your move."

The words sparked a warm feeling in her chest. Georgia inhaled deeply and waited for it to fade. It didn't. She kept her eyes forward and tried to ignore it instead. "Now that you mention it, there is something we need to get out of the way."

† † †

The stern neoclassical building looked distinctly out of place in the pastel-hued residential neighborhood.

It sat in all its somber glory at the end of a small cul-de-sac, surrounded by neatly-trimmed hedges and small, geometric patches of grass. Purple-leaved trees shaded a small parking area just inside the wrought-iron gate.

Georgia eased Dolores into an open space, and turned off the engine. The Valk's final throaty rumble echoed off the surrounding houses. She dismounted, carefully rearranged her skirt and tugged off her helmet. She cast a quick eye around the neighborhood, then laid it on the seat. "All right. We're here."

Darius dismounted, too. She could feel his suspicion growing as they walked up the sidewalk to the building's pillared entrance. Georgia glanced at his face. His forehead tightened with each step they took. The line of his mouth drew steadily thinner.

His senses had to be on high alert by now, even if he still didn't realize where they were. Georgia cleared her throat. "How do you feel?"

The glare he gave her confirmed her suspicions. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me what this is about."

"You'll see." If she told him her plan now, she'd never get him inside.

They came to the doors. Darius reached out to open one for her. Georgia beat him to it. She ignored his disgruntled expression and motioned him inside. Darius gave her a hard look, then stepped over the threshold.

Georgia scarcely had time to join him before he doubled over.

She caught him and helped him to the wall. He sagged against it, pinched the bridge of his nose so hard his fingertips turned white. "What the fuck is this place?"

"It's called The Columbarium." Her fingers were still curled around his arm. Georgia forced them to unclench, and stepped back. "San Franciscans have been interring the ashes of their loves ones here for over one hundred years."

Darius dropped his hand and gave her an incredulous glare. "Are you serious right now? You brought me to a goddamn charnel house?" He shook his head, winced. "Where do you take guys on the second date, the city morgue?"

Georgia tipped up her nose. "Don't be silly. Morgue is the third date." She took in the look on his face, and sighed. "Look, if we're going to work together, we can't have a repeat of the other day. I need to know you're not going to lose your shit if there are spirits around."

Darius scowled. "Who says we're going to work together?"

Georgia rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. We're past that, aren't we?"

Darius didn't answer, his gaze hard. Finally, he jerked his head in a nod. "Fine. What did you have in mind?"

Georgia twined her arm around his again and eased him away from the wall. "Come with me. I'll show you."

He weaved slightly, and she tightened her grip. One halting step at a time, she led him into the rotunda.

They came to a stop in the middle of the central atrium. Every spare inch of wall space was lined with glass-paned niches. Some had clearly been occupied for a very long time. An impressive stained glass dome capped the space.

Georgia stole a moment to admire the soaring balconies, the glittering windows. Then she looked up at Darius. "We can sit down if you need to."

Darius shook his head stiffly. "Let's just get this over with."

"Right." Georgia released his arm, waited until she was sure he was steady before stepping away from him. "First things first. Can you see anything?"

Darius grimaced and nodded. He closed his eyes.

"No. This will only work if you can face what's in front of you."

A muscle ticked in Darius' jaw. He opened his eyes again.

Georgia nodded. "Good. That's the first step. You have to stop running."

Darius' nostrils flared. "What's the next step?"

Georgia took a deep breath and thought back on everything Lena had told her about shielding. "Okay. Next step: you're going to try a little psychic exercise called grounding."

Darius gave her a dark look. "I'm not doing any—"

"Hokey bullshit. I know. Humor me."

He frowned, but nodded again.

"Good." Georgia's belly fluttered. She took another deep breath. "Now, I want you to focus on all the energy you have in your body. Everything in the universe is made up of energy, right? Including you. Including me. Feel that energy, and concentrate on it."

Darius' brow furrowed. When he spoke, he didn't sound like he was breathing. "All right."

"Very good. Now I want you to visualize all that energy moving into the center of your body, right below your chest. It's going to feel warm, like your core is glowing."

Some of the tension leaked from his muscles. "Yeah."

"Good. Think of that as your anchor. Any time you start to feel overwhelmed by all the etheric noise, you're going to focus back on that feeling. If it helps, you can say an affirmation. Something like, 'I am present', or 'I am grounded'."

Darius gave her a bland look.

Georgia shrugged. "Or not. Whatever. All that matters is that it works for you." She crossed her arms. "How do you feel?"

Darius shrugged. "Not sure. Better, I guess? It's not as loud anymore."

"Then you're ready for part two."

Georgia didn't wait for him to agree. Fortunately, he didn't seem to mind.

"You're still going to focus on that glow, but now you're going to envision it expanding. Keep widening the circle until it surrounds your entire body. When you combine energy with intent, it should form a shield. Nothing will be able to get through it that you don't want reaching you."

Georgia held her breath and waited. Darius' brow furrowed deeper. His shoulders tightened again. "I don't think it worked. It looks like all I did was piss them off." He sucked in a breath. "Fuck, it feels like something's drilling a hole through my head."

Shit. She'd been afraid of that. Georgia mustered a little magic in her palm. Much as she needed him to learn this lesson, there was only so far she was prepared to push. If need be, she would shield them both and get him the hell out of there.

But not yet. "Try again."

Darius' mouth worked, but he gave a sharp nod. His face hardened. His hands clenched into fists. Georgia didn't breathe.

Suddenly, his eyes widened. Air hissed through his teeth in a silent whistle. "It worked." He stared at her. A slow grin spread over his face. "It _worked_. The headache's gone. Everything's gone. I feel...fine."

The unabashed wonderment in his voice made her chest tighten. Just how long had it been since he'd last felt 'fine'?

Before she could say anything, he threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed around the still chamber, deep and unexpectedly rich. It rolled down her spine and made the deepest parts of her belly dance.

It was the first time she'd heard him laugh.

Georgia fought to reign in her galloping heartbeat. She found her voice again. "Those things you were probably experiencing—headaches, creaky joints, tunnel vision—they're all forms of psychic attack. Some spirits will do whatever they can to get a medium's attention, even if that means hurting them. Hell, some of them get off on doing just that." She trailed off, rubbed the back of her neck.

Darius' face had gone still. He regarded her with a quiet, curious expression. "Why did you do this?"

Georgia opened her mouth, then closed it again. How was she supposed to answer that when she didn't even know? She shrugged. "If you're going to interact with the spirit world, it has to be on your terms. It can't be because you were bullied into it." She swallowed hard. "Besides, you were hurting. You've been hurting from the moment I met you. Probably longer."

She glanced at him. His face was set.

Georgia's chest tightened again. She shook her head. "Shit, D." Her voice came out a whisper. "Hasn't anyone tried to teach you this before? Didn't anyone see how much pain you were in?"

His gaze briefly dropped to her lips. Then he met her eyes. "You did."

† † †

The curb in front of her apartment building was full.

Georgia circled around the corner. Her eye zeroed in on a break in the cars a block up. She eased up on the throttle and wedged Dolores's hefty frame into it. She killed the engine, waited for the last echoed rumbles to die down.

Then she turned to Darius. "You realize I could have just dropped you off at your office, right?"

He dismounted smoothly from the seat behind her. "Not while that thing is still out there. No way are you going home alone in the dark."

Georgia gaped. "Are you serious? That's...that's just...that's so..."

Chivalrous.

Charming.

Sweet.

She shook herself. "I'll be perfectly—"

"Fine. I know." He kept his eyes on the surrounding street, but his lips twitched. "Humor me."

Score another one for the detective. Georgia humphed, but kept her remaining protests to herself. She shoved her helmet under her arm and fumbled with the latch on one of the Valk's hardbags.

"Let me."

Long, warm fingers brushed hers. Georgia jumped, bit the inside of her cheek and backed away. "Knock yourself out. I just need the briefcase."

He made quick work of the latch. When he straightened again, he had her briefcase in his hand. He re-latched the hardbag, and followed her onto the sidewalk. Georgia tried to think of something to say. Her mind stayed persistently blank. She started walking, and Darius fell into step at her side.

They were only a few buildings down from the corner when the energy shifted around them.

Darius stiffened. "Do you feel—"

A sound like a thunderclap cut him off. Car alarms went off down the full length of the street. Georgia's heart leaped into her throat. Darius' hand came down hard on her arm, and he wrenched her behind him.

At first, it only looked like a shift in the shadows. Then the darkness gathered, twisted. Georgia gulped. A smell like burning brimstone seared her nostrils and brought tears to her eyes. A strange mark appeared on the sidewalk, charred into the concrete. Then another. Georgia peered closer.

Paw prints.

She grabbed Darius' hand. "Darius. Problem."

A beam from the lone streetlamp overhead bounced off a massive, wolf-shaped shadow. Twin puffs of air jetted from a distinctly canid nose. The shadow sharpened, solidified. Dark, oily fur glistened in the dim light.

Georgia whooshed out a breath. "Big problem. Darius?"

His hand abruptly vanished from her arm. A second later, three deafening cracks rang through the air. Georgia felt the noise more than she heard it. The echoes reverberated inside her skull. She felt her lips form a nasty word, but couldn't tell if she said it out loud. All she heard was a dull whine in her ears.

In front of her, Darius was wielding a wicked, matte black handgun. He was still positioned to shoot, his entire body angled to absorb the recoil. He fired off another shot.

The creature paused. For a moment Georgia wondered if he'd actually hit it, but the tilt of its head suggested surprise rather than pain. Darius' hand closed around her arm again. He dragged her unceremoniously off the sidewalk, circling wide.

The creature let out a bone-jarring roar and dematerialized, only to reappear in the center of the street. It roared again. Georgia winced as hot air blasted her face.

Darius squeezed off another shot. "Georgia, run!"

The creature snarled. Georgia ground her teeth. Like hell. She fumbled through her clothes. She had to have something on her she could cobble into a spell. Anything. Even dryer lint would be a start.

Her hands slid uselessly down the sleek, pocketless sides of her pencil skirt. Georgia hissed and checked her blazer. Nothing.

The creature was steadily advancing. Darius fired again. This time the shot didn't even earn a wince. The creature bayed and lashed out with an immense paw. Darius danced out of reach. "Damn it, woman, I said _RUN_!"

The creature lunged forward. Darius swore, readjusted his grip on the gun and pistol-whipped it across the muzzle. It bellowed and struck out hard; once, twice.

The second blow caught him square in the side. A horrible wheeze erupted from his throat. He shifted his grip one last time as he went down. A final shot rang out.

The creature yelped. Something dark and wet spurted from its nose. It staggered back to a safer distance and shook its head. Blackish liquid spattered the street.

Georgia seized her chance and raced to Darius. She skidded to the pavement beside him, ignored the stinging pain as the skin on her knees shredded. "Darius? Damn it, you stubborn son of a... We have to get you out of here!"

He didn't answer. Panic clawed at her throat. She tried to lift him. The muscles in her back burned in protest. Georgia gritted her teeth and tried again. "Come on, you big lug. You have to help me."

A strange gleam around his neck caught her eye. Georgia gave up trying to lift him, and pulled a small silver pendant out from under his shirt. She squinted down at it.

Darius' hand closed around hers. "The fuck are you doing with my St. Michael?" His voice sounded raspy.

The creature wuffled and gave its head another shake. Its yellow eyes locked on them.

Georgia made a strangled noise deep in her throat. "St. Michael? You're a goddamn Catholic?"

Darius glared up at her. "Recovering Catholic. Can we please do this later?"

The creature was back to circling. Georgia shook her head. "A Catholic," she muttered. "Do you have any idea what people like you do to people like me?"

Before Darius could reply, the creature let loose a roar that surpassed any of the others. Georgia scrambled to her feet. Darius grunted. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Georgia swallowed hard. "It wants me, right? Maybe it'll leave you alone if—"

"Absolutely not." She heard him struggle to his feet behind her. "No way are you going full-martyr on me. Not if I have anything to—"

The creature charged. Darius swore, and Georgia braced herself. Maybe it wouldn't kill her. Maybe if she just did what it wanted, it would let her go. At the very least, maybe she could get through to it somehow, convince it to leave Darius alone...

And maybe Hell wasn't hot.

The smell of brimstone and rank animal made her eyes water. Georgia held her ground. Darius clutched her arm and tried to drag her back, but his injury was showing. All he managed was a weak tug.

Suddenly, the creature stopped short. It huffed belligerently, paced one way, then the other.

Georgia blinked. "What the...?" Understanding slammed through her. "Of course. Of _course_."

"What? What the hell is—"

Georgia whirled, closed her fist around his St. Michael and yanked. The chain snapped. Darius growled. "You'd better have a damn good—"

Georgia faced the creature again and held the medal in front of her. It recoiled, snorted and pawed at the ground.

Darius gaped. "Well, I'll be damned."

Georgia didn't allow herself to dwell on the triumph that warmed her chest. She kept the hand holding the medal outstretched, hooked her free hand under Darius' arm. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

# CHAPTER TWELVE

#

Darius tried to find a comfortable position on Georgia's saggy couch.

In the street below, the creature let out howl after piercing howl. The sound easily penetrated the garbage bag that still covered the bay window. Georgia stood beside it, forehead drawn, a black candle in her hand. The wards protecting the apartment buzzed indignantly.

An eternity seemed to stretch by before the howling finally ceased. An unnatural silence blanketed the street. Georgia let out a breath and turned around. Her face was an unhealthy shade of gray.

Darius started to stand. Deep, searing pain shot through his side. He sagged back and shifted his focus to just breathing. Even cracked ribs didn't hurt like that. It was as if the pain was part of him, like it had bonded to him on a subatomic level. And it only seemed to be getting worse.

Georgia crossed over to the couch, her face dark. "How do you feel?"

He barely managed to speak. "Like I need a hospital."

Georgia winced. "I don't think a hospital will do you much good. Not if that thing did what I think it did." She hesitated. "Do you mind if I take a look?"

Darius blinked. "Take a look?"

"At your side."

Darius glanced down at his shirt and tie. No way would he be able to get them off on his own, not in the shape he was in. "You'd have to...ah..."

If she'd been further away, he would have missed the faint hitch in her breath. "Not a problem."

Maybe not for her. Darius nodded, hissed as the movement sparked a wave of agony. "Do it."

Georgia knelt in front of him, reached out and carefully loosened the knot in his tie. At the first brush of her fingers, his pulse jumped. The pain spiked along with it. Darius ground his teeth. _Damn it, man, keep it together._

She turned up the points of his collar and slid the tie from around his neck, set it on the cushion beside him. Then she turned her attention to the top button of his dress shirt. Darius swallowed hard, and Georgia looked sharply at his face. He reminded himself to keep breathing.

She quickly dispensed with the rest of the buttons, her motions oddly jerky. She arched an eyebrow at his white undershirt. "Layers? What are you, ninety?"

Darius scowled. "Keep talking, witch."

Georgia rolled her eyes. "Whatever. I'm going to lift this."

Darius steeled himself.

After a final glance at his face, Georgia slipped her fingers under the hem of the undershirt. White lights went off in front of his eyes. Darius barely managed to muffle his groan. Georgia looked at him sharply. Her lips thinned.

It took a couple tries before he could speak. "Well?"

"Well, I was right. You have an energy wound." She lowered the undershirt again and rocked back on her heels. "I think you can rule out a hospital. Conventional medicine won't do shit for this kind of thing."

Darius grimaced. "Great. What's my other option?"

"Me." Georgia got to her feet. "I'm familiar with esoteric healing, and I have experience using vibrational medicine. Right now, I'm your best bet." Her voice dropped, softened a fraction. "Let me fix you up, D."

Darius started to protest, then stopped. Under normal circumstances he would have refused, but then, these were hardly normal circumstances. Besides, the pain was beginning to chafe at his sanity.

He clenched his teeth. "Hurry."

Georgia nodded, and retreated to what at first glance appeared to be a roll-top desk shoved into the corner. She dragged the cover back. Underneath was a small, neatly arranged altar. She sifted through the desk's drawers, finally turned back around with an armful of supplies.

He could only imagine the look on his face, because she rolled her eyes. "Calm down. I told you, I've done this before. It's not like I'm going to turn you into a newt by mistake."

Darius snorted, winced. Georgia's expression grew serious. She crossed back to the couch, knelt down again and set the supplies on the floor. Darius peered down curiously. Blue candle that had clearly been used before, Bic lighter, small bottle of what looked like oil, and a massive leather-bound book. It looked well-worn, though not particularly old.

Georgia noticed him looking at it. "My Book of Shadows. It's where I write down all my spells." She paused. "Every witch writes their own."

This time, Darius didn't try to nod. "I know what a grimoire is."

"Of course you do," she muttered. She picked up the book and started flipping through the pages. Darius waited as patiently as he could. Finally, satisfaction filled her face. "Here we go." She set the book down and placed the candle over the open page. Then she turned back to him. "I'll need, ah, access to the wound."

Darius blinked. "Access to the..."

"Your shirt, super sleuth." Her tongue skimmed over her lips. "You need to take off your shirt."

In spite of everything, Darius' pulse ratcheted up another notch. He kept his face neutral. "You'll have to help me."

"Yeah." The word sounded clipped. Georgia clambered to her feet. "Can you stand? It would be easier to..."

Darius struggled to get up. Georgia hooked one hand under his arm, set the other at his waist. He straightened with her help, and released a painful breath. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet."

He braced himself for another wave of agony, but her fingers were nimble and quick. In short order, she had removed his jacket and cufflinks, and peeled his dress shirt the rest of the way off. Her touch was feather-light, barely there...and he felt it in every nerve in his body.

Soon, all that remained was his undershirt. Georgia's eyes briefly flitted over the tattooed words that ran down both his arms, then she slipped her fingertips under the hem again, slid her hands around until her arms encircled his waist. There, she stopped.

Darius wasn't sure he was still breathing. Her aura pulsed around them both, a brilliant shade of red. He forced himself to remain still. "What's wrong?"

Georgia shook her head. "This isn't going to feel good."

Darius locked his jaw. "Just do it."

Her jaw visibly tightened too, then she drew the undershirt over his head. She had to stand on her tip-toes to lift it entirely clear. The energy wound flared in response. Pain shot down every sensory pathway he possessed. Darius wheezed. He would have screamed if could have gathered the air to do it. The only thing keeping him grounded was the feel of Georgia's warm, firm body pressed to his.

After what felt like a small infinity, she stepped back again. Darius willed his legs to hold, finally managed a shaky breath. When he opened his eyes again, Georgia wasn't looking at him anymore. She had retrieved the Book of Shadows from the floor. Her full attention was focused on the open page.

She didn't look up when she spoke again. "Do you want to sit down, or would you rather do this standing?"

Darius swallowed, once, twice. The thought of moving again, even if it was to sit, made the pain sensors in his side burn in anticipation. "I'll stand."

Georgia nodded. "All right, then." She laid the open book down on the couch. Then she crouched over the rest of her supplies. She opened the little bottle and dripped three fat drops of fragrant oil onto the blue candle.

Darius' nose twitched at the familiar scent. "Myrrh?"

"Don't we know our holy oils." Georgia replaced the lid on the bottle, gathered the candle and the lighter and returned to her feet. She made a show of looking down at the book. "Now, hush. Let me do this."

Darius barely managed to swallow his snort.

Georgia drew tall, her expression intense. She raised the candle. "Blue candle: color of water, color of sky, color of the Holy Fire." She struck the lighter, and touched the resulting spark to the candle wick. "By the divine power of the Lady, I charge and consecrate you to the task of healing."

Darius stared at the small dancing flame. Georgia's words faded until only the hum of her voice remained. It was deep, full, strangely husky. He could feel the echoes of it deep in his gut, further down.

Something pinged in his side. Darius sucked in a breath. The pain seemed to be rising; closer and closer to the surface. A burning ache blossomed over his skin. It felt nothing like it had before.

Even so, it hurt like a bitch.

Darius focused on Georgia—or rather, on her aura. It was incredible to behold, a kaleidoscopic rainbow of color. Tiny currents of what looked like pure electricity arced through it. Her magic. The brilliant red was still there, in a thin, humming layer around her body. Darius sucked a quiet breath through his nose.

Georgia was too deep in concentration to notice. "Magic heal, fire burn. Sickness flee, and strength return."

She reached out and flattened her hand against his side, directly over the wound. The contact was electric, a bolt of lightning that surged through his deepest layers of flesh. Georgia kept her hand in place and continued chanting.

Her touch was warm, strong. The initial shock faded. Gradually, something else took its place, something he was entirely unprepared for. A groan rose in his throat. He caught it, but not soon enough. The tiniest sound slipped out.

Georgia blushed.

Actually blushed.

Darius could only stare while she rushed through the rest of the spell. He barely heard her, his full attention tuned to her face. Her sharp, wild, adorably pink face. Georgia Clare—biker, black witch, all-around badass—was blushing.

"Sickness flee, and strength return. So mote it be." Georgia blew out the candle and abruptly set it down on the couch. Hot blue wax spilled onto the cushion. She seemed unusually winded as she clapped shut her grimoire. Her fingers danced—no, trembled—over the cover. Darius tightened his jaw.

Georgia took a deep breath and straightened. "Okay. How does it feel?"

"Fine. Thanks." His side still tingled where she'd touched him. Darius rubbed the spot absently. "We need to have words, you and I."

She didn't meet his eyes. "Do we?"

Frustration bubbled to the surface, mixed with something he didn't want to examine too closely. "Hell yes, we do. Back there in the street. I told you to run. You didn't. What the fuck were you thinking?"

Color rose in her cheeks. Still, she didn't look at him. "Gosh, I don't know. Maybe that it would be pretty shitty to just run off and leave you to your death. Silly me."

Darius' head swam. He leaned down before he could think better of it. "You could have been killed. You realize that, right?" He could practically feel his ribs rattling, like his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest.

Georgia squared her shoulders. Her face was maddeningly calm. "What's your point?"

"What's my..." Darius gaped. "Are you serious?"

She finally looked at him. "Honestly, I don't see what you're so upset about. We're here, aren't we?"

Darius seethed. "That's not the point."

"Then what is the—"

"YOU COULD HAVE DIED." The words exploded out of him. In the apartment next door, a dog started to bark.

Georgia's mouth clapped shut. The color drained from her face.

Darius forced his voice back down. "You heard me. You could have _died_ , Georgia." Just saying it out loud turned his stomach sour. "Jesus Christ, woman, did that even cross your—"

Georgia stretched up on her tip-toes, and pressed her lips to his.

It was more experiment than kiss. She broke contact almost immediately. Darius forgot to take his next breath. Damn, she tasted sweet. He took in the rapid rise-fall of her breathing, the glazed heat in her eyes. He had the taste of her on his tongue, a flavor he didn't quite know how to name. He needed more.

His vision tunneled. He leaned forward and kissed her back.

He parted her lips with his, flicked his tongue into the velvet heat of her mouth. It was just like he'd suspected: the leather and metal and denim were all just smokescreens. But unlike he'd suspected, underneath the smoke, Georgia wasn't soft.

She was fire.

Her hands grazed his hips, but didn't stay there. They slid up his sides, danced over his chest. His skin pebbled everywhere she touched. Her fingers skated up the line of his jaw, dusted the studs in his ears.

Darius hissed into her mouth. He'd never thought his piercings could be so sensitive—but then, no one had ever thought to play with them before. Each brush sent sensation sizzling down a livewire inside him. He'd never even known it existed.

He certainly hadn't expected Georgia would be the one to find it.

He gave rein to his curiosity, and fisted a hand in her thick violet curls. They were coarser than he'd imagined. Wilder. The discovery made something deep in his core draw tight. He followed her lead and tracked one finger down the line of her jaw. Then he notched it under her chin.

Her skin heated under his touch. Here, she was soft. Darius tipped her head back and took the kiss deeper. Georgia's hands returned to his hips, this time soldered there. He rocked into her, pure reflex, and her sweet moan hummed over his tongue. The sensation nearly sent him cross-eyed.

He pulled back just until her face came into focus. The color was high in her cheeks. Her lips were kiss-swollen and bruised, her eyes dilated nearly black. Darius caught his breath. Fuck, she was beautiful.

Fuck, what was he doing?

Wrong. This was wrong. A list of words raced through his head. _Apostate, heretic, pagan_.

_Witch_.

He carefully set her back on her feet, waited until he was sure she'd stay standing. Then he retreated back to the couch. "I'm sorry, I...that got out of hand."

Georgia blinked at him. "Did it?"

Her eyes were still dark. Darius tore his gaze away before he sank into them again. "I think we both know it did." A gust of cool air from the window reminded him he wasn't wearing a shirt. He bent over, snatched his undershirt from off the couch and pulled it over his head.

Georgia watched as he gathered the rest of his things. Darius didn't let himself look at her. Jesus Christ, he had to get out of there before he did something else he'd regret. He all but bolted for the door.

"So, what's the plan for tomorrow?"

Darius froze, one hand on the doorknob. It took his muddled brain a moment to process the question. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. You know. The case?" Georgia crossed her arms and trailed after him. "In case it slipped your mind, there is still a...whatever-the-hell-it-is...after me."

"I know that." How could she be this collected? She'd practically reduced him to atoms, and now she wanted to talk about the case? He started to open the door. "I'll, ah, call you."

"Bullshit." Georgia stepped in front of him. Her eyes flashed. "Don't you dare lie to me. I know what it means when you use that tone of voice." Her eyes narrowed. "What's gotten in to you?"

"What's gotten...?" She couldn't be serious. "Were you not here just now? We...I..." Darius stopped. "Some lines you just don't cross. Not in my business."

"Your business?" Georgia rolled her eyes. "You mean the private detective business? I wasn't aware you guys had such ironclad rules about making out with clients." She ignored the choking sound he made. "Seriously, have you even seen The Maltese Falcon?"

Darius' face heated. "This isn't some movie, Ms. Clare. You're not Mary Astor, and I'm sure as hell no Humphrey Bogart. Here in the real world, there are rules."

Something that looked like disappointment flashed across her face. "And you always follow the rules, don't you, deCompostela?" Her voice was quiet. She fixed her eyes on a spot just over his shoulder, and stepped away from the door.

Darius stared down at her. Damn it, he didn't want to leave like this. He tried to think of something to say, something that would fix whatever the hell had just happened. Not a single thing came to mind.

He opened the door without a word and walked out.

† † †

Not even Ray Charles could lift his mood.

Darius sat in his armchair, a new bottle of Grey Goose open on the end table beside him. He splashed a measure into the shot glass in his hand, and slugged it back. It burned a freezing trail down his throat before landing in his empty stomach. Darius squeezed his eyes shut.

Georgia's scent still lingered on him. He'd stripped off his undershirt the instant he walked through the door, but it hadn't made a difference. It was as though her essence was baked into his skin. The taste of her still clung to his lips, that flavor he couldn't quite place. A quarter into the bottle of vodka, he still hadn't managed to wash it away.

He wasn't sure he wanted to.

Darius let his head fall back against the chair. What was he doing? He couldn't get involved with a witch. Of course he couldn't. He might be working for a witch. Might be working _with_ a witch. But that was different. That was just business.

He felt the spirit's presence before it actually materialized. Darius groaned out loud. He wasn't in the mood to deal with this. How did they keep getting through his wards? A ghostly figure slowly emerged in front of his record player. Darius' mouth went dry.

The little girl wore the same My Little Pony's t-shirt as before. Sound waves shimmered through her etheric form in time to Ray's rendition of _Hard Times_. She cocked her head when she saw him looking at her.

Darius poured himself another shot. He didn't drink it.

The girl watched him through eyes that weren't quite eyes, a curious expression on her cherubic face. For once, Darius didn't look away. He studied her back. Her clothes looked clean and well-kept. The pigtails in her hair were neat, matching Disney princess barrettes fastened around the roots.

Someone had clearly cared for this child. Loved this child. And somehow, she was dead.

Darius leaned forward a little. The girl's eyes widened, but she didn't try to move away. He tried to speak. His voice failed him.

He succeeded the second try. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

The girl stared at him for a moment, as though stunned he'd actually spoken to her. Darius didn't blame her. He could scarcely believe it, either.

When she answered, the words flowed out in a rush. "I'm Madison. Are you a friend of my mom's? My mom has a lot of friends. I don't think Daddy likes them very much."

Darius opened his mouth, but then Madison jerked. A loud pop echoed through the studio. Her face twisted. "Ow."

Oh, fuck. Darius pressed back in his chair. His pulse started to race.

Another pop, this one accompanied by a sickening crunch. Madison started to cry. Her shoulder dangled in its socket. "What's happening to me?"

Darius pressed his lips together. His breaths came shorter, faster. Nausea rolled in his gut, and pain stabbed at his temples. This was wrong. This was too much. He hadn't signed up for this shit. His hand instinctively flew to his pocket.

Empty. He still hadn't replaced the sanctuary oil.

Something cracked in Madison's chest. A deep crimson stain spread down the front of her My Little Ponies shirt. She looked down, and cried harder. "Why is this happening? Where's my mom?"

Darius fought to breathe normally. Georgia. Georgia had taught him that technique—what was it called? Grounding. He forced his racing thoughts to quiet, pictured the energy within him gathering, focusing.

Madison let out a wail, pain and confusion. "Wait! Where are you going?"

Darius didn't let himself dwell on the guilt that surged with the sound of her panicked voice. He envisioned the energy spreading outward, cocooning him in a quiet, empty bubble.

Madison whimpered. "I want my mom. Please don't leave me here alo—"

The energy closed around him with a hiss. Abruptly, the girl disappeared.

Darius let out a breath, but this time the pain in his head didn't go away. He stared at the spot where Madison had last stood. A crushing sense of loneliness washed over him.

Just business. Georgia Clare was just business. As long as he didn't forget that again, he could ride out the remainder of this case and walk away. He could leave ghosts, witches, and the subversive world behind, and get back to his life.

Darius huffed out a breath and tipped back his shot.

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

#

She hadn't really expected to hear from him, but that didn't make the absence of a phone call any less painful.

Georgia made quick time through the morning commuter traffic, arriving at The Procyon just in time to snag the last parking spot out front. She kicked down Dolores's stand, at the same time unzipped her jacket pocket and tugged out her cell.

Still no call. Her heart shrank a little.

She gave herself a vicious shake. No way in hell was she going to get hung up on Darius deCompostela. He'd made it abundantly clear how he felt about what she was— _who_ she was. Sooner or later it would become an issue...if it wasn't already. She did not need that kind of negativity in her life.

Georgia sighed.

She climbed off Dolores and headed towards the lobby doors, her helmet still firmly in place. The extra layer between her and the world was a relief. She didn't want to think about what people might see if they looked into her eyes.

She squared her shoulders and marched inside. deCompostela would just have to manage his damage. They still had a case to solve. That thing was still after her. She wasn't going to let him sideline her. Not now.

The lobby was empty. Thin sunlight flowed through the gleaming glass doors, glinted off the polished white marble. Georgia hesitated, then headed for the elevator. She jammed one glove-clad finger on the call button.

"He's not here, you know."

Georgia jumped, whirled. Daniel Zerubabbel was behind her. He looked different than the last time she'd seen him. Rougher. He stood at a distance he probably thought would put her at ease. It didn't.

She tried to look casual. "What are you talking about?"

His arched eyebrow said he didn't buy her act for a second. "Darius. He isn't here. He always comes in late on Tuesdays."

Had the room gotten warmer? Georgia pulled off her helmet. "Why? What's so special about Tuesdays?"

Daniel shrugged. "Never asked. But he left us an address. You know, in case a client has an emergency while he's out." He tilted his head at an odd angle. "Is this an emergency, Ms. Clare?"

Georgia's shoulders sagged. "No. No emergency." Behind her, the elevator doors opened. She hovered awkwardly in front of them. "Do you know when he'll be back, at least?"

"No saying. Sometimes he's gone an hour or two. Sometimes all day." Daniel crossed his arms.

"Oh." Georgia avoided his eyes.

Daniel's nostrils flared. He took a step forward. "Why, Ms. Clare. Am I making you nervous?"

"No. Of course not." Georgia swallowed hard. "I mean, why would you?"

Daniel took another step, then another. Soon, he stood directly in front of her. Georgia forced her feet to stay planted. His nostrils flared again. The expression on his face took a cruel turn. "I think I do. Listen to your heartbeat. Fast, like a jackrabbit." His lips peeled back from his teeth. "Do you want to run?"

_Yes_. Georgia forced herself to meet his eyes. She did a double-take. Had they changed color? She could have sworn they'd been brown before, but now they were a pale, frigid blue.

"Daniel."

The new voice was sharp, commanding. Daniel jerked, blinked hard. When he looked at her again, his eyes were brown again.

Georgia let out a shuddering breath. "What...?"

A man appeared from a hallway in the far side of the lobby. He was dressed in a suit that rivalled Darius' for panache. His face might have belonged to a Renaissance statue; perfect, symmetrical. A stern line creased his forehead. His footsteps echoed off the marble floor tiles.

Daniel quickly stepped away from her. "Ms. Clare, I don't believe you've met my business partner. This is Aloysius Paul."

Georgia looked from one of them to the other. She cleared her throat, and stuck out her hand. "Mr. Paul. Nice to meet you." _I think._

She didn't say that last part out loud, but Aloysius Paul seemed to hear it anyway. His lips twisted in a cold imitation of a smile. "The pleasure is all mine, Miss...Clare, was it?"

Georgia nodded. She started to say something else when Aloysius clasped her hand. Something that smelled like expensive cologne flooded her senses. Usually she hated cologne, but the one he wore didn't bother her at all. If anything, it had the opposite effect. Georgia caught herself leaning in for a deeper sniff.

She jerked back at the last minute. What the hell was the deal with these people? She unceremoniously yanked her hand away. "Right, well, I should be going. When Darius gets back, could you let him know I was here?"

Aloysius turned to Daniel, eyebrows raised. "She's here for deCompostela?"

Daniel twitched his shoulders, like he was trying to dislodge something from his back. "Apparently they're working together. On a case."

Aloysius glanced at her. "And he knows she's a...?"

"Sure does."

Now they were both looking at her. Georgia started backing towards the exit. "Look, just tell him I stopped by, okay? I really have to—"

"St. Jude."

She froze mid-step, and stared at Aloysius. "Excuse me?"

The man's perfect face didn't move. "St. Jude Catholic Church. It's where Darius goes every Tuesday. I think he has some longstanding arrangement with the priest there." His nose wrinkled.

_What kind of arrangement?_ Georgia bit her tongue before she could ask. She tugged her helmet back over her head. "St. Jude. Thanks." She paused. "Why tell me?"

Aloysius rested a casual hand on Daniel's shoulder. "Darius is our friend. He's also...gifted. But of course you knew that already." His eyes bored into hers. Georgia was startled to notice a flash of gold in them.

She nodded. "Yes."

"As long as we've known him, he's been in denial about who he really is." Aloysius shrugged. "Let's just say we're hoping you can help him reach his potential."

† † †

The newly-gentrified Potrero Hill street scene pulsed with chic vitality.

Georgia hiked out of the public lot where she'd stashed Dolores. Around her, stylish thirty-somethings pushed ergonomic strollers down sidewalks lined with wine tasting rooms, cafes, and faintly hipster-looking salons. Freshly painted Victorians looked on with dignified approval.

At first glance, St. Jude Catholic Church was practically indecipherable from the structures around it. A nondescript building on the corner, it barely cleared three stories tall, with brick trim and a flat roof.

Georgia's skin buzzed as she approached the heavy wooden doors. She swallowed hard. She didn't put much stock in church. Church was a place people went, a story people told. Most of the time, those stories didn't impress her much.

Faith, however, was another matter. Faith of any creed was sacred. Faith of every kind had power.

St. Jude was chock-full of faith.

Georgia took a deep breath and banged a fist on one of the doors. She stepped back, waited. A few minutes passed, then the door swung inward. An aging nun roughly the size of a church mouse peered out at her. "Yes?"

Georgia cleared her throat. "I'm, um, looking for Darius deCompostela. I was told I could find him here," she paused, then added lamely, "Sister."

The nun took in her violet lowlights, her black leather jacket and motorcycle boots, without batting an eye. She made a sound that wasn't quite humph and stepped back. "Come with me."

Georgia followed her into a tiny narthex. A second set of doors inside were open, revealing the smallest sanctuary she'd ever seen. The nun marched past without stopping, to a narrow staircase wedged in the corner.

They wound their way up two flights of steep stairs. The walls seemed to grow steadily narrower the further they climbed. Finally, they came to a door at the top. It was marked with faded block letters: ROOF ACCESS.

Georgia turned to the nun. "What's Darius doing up here?"

The nun half-turned, a set of keys in her hand. "He's in the garden." She turned back without another word and unlocked the door, pushed it open and stepped onto the roof. Georgia followed, eyebrows raised.

Three stories above street level, the rooftop of St. Jude was a miniature Eden. Raised planter boxes overflowed with flowers: everything from lavender, nigella, and Love-Lies-Bleeding to bright orange poppies and gigantic, showy dahlias. The roof itself was covered with gravel. Set into it were stepping stones, winding their way between the planter boxes and following the edges of the rooftop. From what Georgia could tell, each winding path led to a statue of the Virgin Mary in the epicenter of the garden.

The nun's voice cut through the serenity. "Darius! Are you still up here?"

A familiar voice boomed from behind a wall of sunflowers. "Yeah! Back here."

The nun nodded at Georgia. "Go ahead."

Georgia nodded back. Suddenly, she was speechless. The nun shook her head and retreated back into the stairwell. The door shut behind her, and Georgia found herself alone.

Well, almost alone.

She took a deep breath. Then another. Then she started down the path in the direction of Darius' voice. She rounded the box of sunflowers, and stopped in her tracks.

Darius was crouched behind it, his back to her. A plastic tray of seedlings sat next to him. She didn't know why she'd expected him to be in a suit. He wasn't. His thin t-shirt stretched over the muscular lines of his broad back. A pair of faded blue jeans hung daringly low on his narrow hips.

Georgia's voice died in her throat.

She did the only thing she could think of, and coughed. Darius' head went up. He started to turn. "What do you think, Sister Paul? Will these new seedlings get enough sun next to the..." His eyes settled on her. His voice faded.

Georgia smiled weakly. "Paul, huh? There's a name."

Darius stared at her. "What are you doing here?"

Georgia blew out a breath. "Seriously, we're going to argue? In a church?"

He scrambled to his feet, and Georgia tried valiantly not to notice the way his body rippled under his clothes. He planted his hands on his hips, seemingly oblivious to the dirt that clung to his heavy gardening gloves. "Technically we're not 'in' a church, we're 'on' a church. And I didn't ask you to come. I told you, I'd—"

"Call me. Right." Georgia scowled. "Quit blowing smoke up my ass, deCompostela."

Darius choked. "What did you say?"

"You heard me. I said quit—"

"Don't." He held up a hand. "Don't say it again. I'm surprised you didn't get struck by lightning the first time."

Georgia shrugged. "Like you said, technically we're only 'on' a church. Guess that means the usual rules don't apply up here."

Darius' eyes darkened, and Georgia caught her breath. She hadn't meant it that way. Of course she hadn't. Judging by the look he was giving her, however, he either didn't realize that, or didn't care. A slow tendril of heat curled deep into her core. Georgia swallowed hard.

Darius shook his head slowly. "See, that right there. That's your problem."

"This should be good." Georgia crossed her arms, a feeble effort to carve some space between them. "Please, enlighten me."

"Rules." Darius sounded winded. "You seem to be under the impression they're for other people. That they don't apply to you."

"They don't." Georgia forgot all about space. She took a step forward. "Rules are for followers, D. I'm not a follower. Never have been. Never will be." She took another step forward, relished the way his jaw tightened. "Are you?"

A vein leaped in his forehead. "Of course I am."

Georgia leaned forward until she could feel the heat rolling off him. He smelled like earth and red-blooded male. "Liar."

Darius met her eyes. "Careful, Ms. Clare." His voice was a low rumble. Georgia felt it almost as much as she heard it. "Keep talking to me like that, and I might forget what a bad idea it would be to kiss you again."

Georgia's stomach hit the floor. She was still trying to think of a response when the door to the roof opened again. A man's voice rang out from the other side of the sunflowers. "Darius? Are you here?"

Darius visibly shook himself, and stepped back. "Yeah! Be right out." He gave her a hard look, and began stripping the gloves off his hands. "You're really not going anywhere, are you?"

"No." Heat simmered just under her skin. Georgia lifted her chin and met his eyes. "I'm really not."

Darius sighed. "I was afraid of that." He bent over and dropped the gloves next to the tray of seedlings. Then he straightened again. "In that case, you'd better meet Father Gregory."

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

#

Darius took a brief moment to collect himself, then stepped out from behind the sunflowers. Feelings warred inside him at the sight of the short, black-clad man waiting at the door to the roof.

Father Gregory had scarcely changed in all the years he'd known him. His chalk-white skin still looked as smooth as a child's. A balding head perched atop a long neck gave him a faintly tortoise-like appearance. His round belly strained the confines of his staid black shirt, and the white collar around his throat looked like it was trying to throttle him.

Only his eyes betrayed his age. Red-rimmed and rheumy behind a pair of round, wire-framed glasses, they nonetheless brightened when Darius emerged. "There you are! Sister Paul said you were still working." He raised the water bottles he held in each hand. "She also said you had company."

Darius hesitated, but before he could think of a response, Georgia was at his side. Father Gregory's eyes took a brief tour of her wild hair, of her leather jacket and motorcycle boots. His eyebrows went up.

Darius sighed. "This is Georgia Clare. A client." He ignored the look on the older man's face. "Georgia, this is Father Gregory. He taught Latin at my old school."

The familiar lie stuck to the roof of his mouth. Georgia didn't seem to notice. The shock on her face was almost comical. "You went to Catholic school?"

Darius humphed.

Father Gregory approached. Darius buried his conflicting emotions, and gratefully accepted the water bottle he passed him. His old teacher turned to Georgia, a stern expression on his face. Darius swallowed a chuckle. Nobody could stare someone down like Father Gregory.

Sure enough, Georgia scarcely seemed to breathe while the priest looked her up and down. Finally, Father Gregory stepped back and folded his hands in front of him. He gave Darius a meaningful look. "She has an Anglican nose."

Darius masked his laugh with a fit of coughing. Georgia's eyes flicked from one of them to the other. "Is that a good thing?"

Father Gregory handed her the remaining water bottle. "It'll do. Water?"

Georgia took it. For the first time since Darius had met her, she appeared speechless. She held the bottle in front of her without opening it. "Um, thanks."

Father Gregory nodded. "So, a client. What's the case?"

Georgia opened her mouth. Darius cut in before she could speak. "It's complicated."

"Complicated, my cassock. Remember who you're speaking to, young man."

Darius fought back a cringe. This was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid. What would the old priest make of his working with a witch? No. He was definitely better off leaving that part out. "Ms. Clare came to me after she witnessed something. She's under my protection."

He could feel Georgia's stare boring into the side of his face. Father Gregory's eyes sharpened. "You're a bodyguard now? Since when did your firm handle that sort of thing?" He glanced at Georgia. "No offense."

"None taken," she muttered.

"We don't. That is, it's not like—"

Father Gregory crossed his arms. "Darius."

Darius cringed again. He knew that tone of voice. He braced himself for the lecture he knew was coming.

Father Gregory fixed him with a pointed look. "I've known you since you barely reached my shoulder. I taught you catechism. I gave you your first communion. I've watched you grow into a fine man. I know we've had our differences..."

Darius could feel Georgia's eyes on him again. He shifted.

Father Gregory lowered his chin and peered at them over the rims of his glasses. "But all that aside, I'm your friend. It doesn't take a genius to figure out you two have gotten yourselves in some kind of trouble. It's all over your face." His gaze intensified. "Whatever it is, let me help."

Darius hesitated. He looked over at Georgia. She shrugged. Her expression was clear.

Your call.

Darius met the older man's eyes. "I can trust your discretion?"

Father Gregory's face grew serious. "You shouldn't even have to ask."

Darius hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. "Fine. But I'm warning you, it's...well, it's pretty unbelievable."

Father Gregory humphed. "Boy, I'm a Catholic. We eat 'unbelievable' for breakfast." He jerked his head towards the access door. "Now, what say we head down to my office and you two can tell me all about it."

Darius sighed again. "Yeah. All right."

A few minutes later, they were all packed into St. Jude's tiny administrative office. Darius found himself in what felt like a miniature-sized arm chair facing a portrait of The Sacred Heart of Jesus. Georgia made herself comfortable in the seat beside him. Father Gregory stood directly underneath the portrait. He raised his eyebrows, and motioned for Darius to begin.

Darius tried to find a position where his legs would be out of the way. There wasn't one. He shook his head one last time, and launched into a brief version of everything that had happened.

Father Gregory didn't interrupt. His expression never changed, but his eyebrows ticked higher and higher.

Darius finished a few minutes later, omitting the part about his kiss with Georgia. Some things the priest didn't need to know. He let out a heavy breath. "So there you have it. Like I said. Unbelievable."

Father Gregory pinched his lower lip. His eyes were serious. "And this whatever-it-was; it reacted to your St. Michael?"

Darius nodded. "That's right."

Father Gregory hissed out a quiet breath. Darius glanced at Georgia. She looked every bit as concerned as he felt. He leaned forward in his chair. "So, what are you thinking?"

Father Gregory made his way to a groaning bookshelf wedged into the corner of the office. He squinted at the dusty titles, one finger tracking as he read. Finally, he found what he was looking for. He slid an ancient-looking volume off the shelf, retreated back to where Darius and Georgia were sitting. Without a word, he passed the book to Darius.

Darius had to squint too to make out the faded letters on the cover. " _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_? What is this?"

Father Gregory rocked back on his heels. "Roughly translated, it means _The False Monarchy of Demons_."

Darius felt the blood drain from his face. "Demons."

"Eyes like hellfire? Stench like brimstone? Compelled by St. Michael the Archangel?" Father Gregory crossed his arms. "I'd say a demon fits your bill."

Darius turned to Georgia. "What do you think about this?"

Her face was paler than usual. She worried at her lower lip. "It makes sense."

Darius stared. "A demon. I didn't think you believed in all that."

Georgia lifted a shoulder, dropped it again. "In all what? Good? Evil? Sure I do. You didn't think Catholics had the only claim on that shit, did you?"

Father Gregory's eyes narrowed, but he merely inclined his head. "The point is, you're dealing with something that packs a preternatural punch. Do you have any idea how this could have happened?"

Darius frowned. "I don't follow. How what could have happened?"

"Demonology one-oh-one, my boy." Father Gregory spread his hands. "A demon can't interfere in the mortal realm unless it's been invoked."

"Invoked. Jesus." Darius ignored the look Father Gregory gave him and sank back in his chair. "So, what does this mean? Exactly what are we dealing with here?"

"A loaded question. Demonology is a vast and complicated field of study." Father Gregory touched the cross around his neck. "That said, it is possible to make some generalizations. Demons are fallen angels. They are not supernatural in nature—that distinction belongs to God alone—but they do operate outside the laws of our natural world."

"Preternatural," Georgia murmured.

Father Gregory nodded. "Exactly. They are entities of pure spirit. As such, they don't communicate the way we do. At least, not by choice. Demons operate at the speed of thought, and they communicate through thought."

Darius traced the letters on the books cover. "Telepathy."

"Mm." Father Gregory nodded again. "But while they are powerful, that power is not limitless. It is bound by the might and will of God."

"That's certainly a comfort," Georgia said under her breath.

Father Gregory's face tightened. He held out a hand, and Darius passed him the book. "From the sound of things, your demon has a very specific target." His gaze locked on Georgia.

Darius cleared his throat. "We came to the same conclusion."

"So then that begs the question," Father Gregory crossed over to the bookshelf and slid the book back into place. "Who would want to call up a demon on Ms. Clare here? And why?"

Georgia looked at him sharply. Darius shifted, waited until her eyes turned to him. He met them briefly, then looked up at Father Gregory. "We don't know."

The priest humphed. "Seems to be a lot you don't know. Do you at least have a plan for how to defend yourselves?"

Darius coughed. Georgia squared her shoulders.

Father Gregory looked from one of them to the other. Comprehension filled his eyes. His face darkened. "Of course. Witchcraft. That's it, isn't it? I knew I smelled the Dark Arts on her. Saints alive, Darius..."

Darius didn't answer.

Father Gregory sighed. "For the love of all things holy, I hope you have something else in your arsenal. Your St. Michael. That's a good start. It was St. Michael who cast the fallen angels out of heaven. They fear him to this day. Do you remember the prayer?"

Darius didn't speak, merely held out his right arm. He knew the words tattooed on it by heart. _Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in the day of battle. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and the snares of the devil..._

Georgia was eying him curiously. Darius tucked his arm back to his side. "Anything else?"

Father Gregory shook his head. "Just this: be careful. The forces you're dealing with are not to be taken lightly. Magic rituals and hocus-pocus won't be enough to stop them." His eyes landed on Georgia again.

She met them without flinching. "You don't trust me to protect him."

"I have a difficult time trusting anyone who would value power over holiness." Father Gregory's eyes hardened. "Your kind serves no higher purpose. The only glory you seek is your own."

Georgia's lips twisted. "My kind learned a long time ago to be suspicious of things done in the name of holiness." She stood. "Please excuse me, _Father_. I think I'll wait outside."

Darius waited until the office door slammed shut behind her, then stood too. "That was uncalled for."

"Was it?" Father Gregory moved to stand in front of him. "Listen to me, Darius. That woman is dangerous. She is relying on forces she cannot possibly understand. Neither can you, for that matter."

Darius shook his head. "You don't know her. You have no idea what she does or doesn't understand."

Father Gregory's mouth turned down at the corners. "Be careful, Darius. Remember why you left. Why you were allowed to leave. You claimed you had no desire for this life, yet here you are. In the company of one of _them_."

Darius met his gaze. "And you be careful who you tell about this visit. Anyone who comes near her is going to have to go through me first."

Father Gregory didn't speak for a moment. When he finally did, his voice was quiet. "I promised I would keep your secrets, and I will. But there may come a time when you are called to account by others." He looked away. "If that happens, I won't be able to help you."

Darius started towards the door. "I'll keep that in mind."

"I would give you Communion before you left." Father Gregory sounded strained. "At the very least, let me hear your confession. If my suspicions are correct and you are dealing with an infernal force, a right soul is your best defense."

Darius chose his words carefully. "You know I don't practice the sacraments. Not anymore."

"Darius—"

"Thank you, Father." Darius opened the door. "But I can take care of my own soul."

† † †

Now she knew how Indiana Jones must have felt.

The tiny dim sum restaurant was crowded, the air thick and steamy with kitchen grease and heat from too many bodies. Georgia stared down at her empty plate. The table between her and Darius was crowded with dishes, each bearing morsels that more resembled set pieces from The Temple Of Doom. She cringed and took a careful sip of tea.

Darius' plate was full. Wielding a pair of chopsticks like a professional, he brought a translucent, pillow-shaped piece of mystery food to his waiting mouth. A blissful expression washed over his face. Georgia stared, unable to tear her eyes away. His hum of pleasure vibrated down the full length of her spine.

She cleared her throat. "So. Father Gregory seems like a real battle-axe."

Darius grimaced, and swallowed his mouthful of food. "Yeah. You'll have to excuse him. It may have been a few years, but he still hasn't gotten over my leaving the fold."

Georgia blew a thin trail through the steam rising from her tea cup. "Exactly how long have you two known each other?"

Darius humphed. "Sometimes it feels like my whole life. Really though, we met when I was in second grade."

Georgia waited.

Darius shifted position. "His church at the time was in my neighborhood, doing some sort of take-back-the-community event. We talked. Saw him a few times after that, and we talked more. He liked me, convinced my auntie to let me attend his church's school on a scholarship."

Georgia chuckled. "I should have guessed you were a Catholic schoolboy. The suit's a dead giveaway."

Darius scowled, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. "Good ole' St. George's. Putting the fear of God into young men since 1967."

Georgia perked up. "St. George's?"

Darius' face instantly shuttered. He shrugged.

Georgia felt her smile slip. She plucked at her napkin with her chopsticks. "Anyway, Father Gregory seemed like more than just your teacher. That's nice, you know?"

Darius' smile disappeared, too. He studied her for a moment without speaking. Then he nodded to her plate. "Have you ever had dim sum before?"

The change of subject was a welcome relief. Georgia swallowed the _hell no_ that sprang to her lips, instead shook her head. "Nope."

"Then you're in for a treat." Darius gestured to the plates between them. "It's not as intimidating as it looks. Steamed pork buns, sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaves. And these," he plucked up another of the enigmatic translucent pillows, "are my favorite. Har gau—shrimp dumplings." He held it out. "Taste."

Upon closer inspection, a hint of pink shone through the crystalline wrapper. Georgia hesitated, then leaned forward. Darius' eyes darkened, but he waited while she caught the tiny package between her teeth and bit down.

The wrapper shredded without the slightest protest. Inside, the shrimp was fresh and firm and sweet. Georgia groaned in spite of herself.

Darius' lips parted. He quickly picked up something from one of the other plates. "Here. Try some of the pork bun."

Georgia swallowed her protests along with the rest of the shrimp dumpling. Obediently, she leaned forward again and allowed Darius to feed her a bite. The dumpling sank under her teeth like a cloud. A burst of porky flavor saturated her taste buds. Georgia moaned. "Oh my god, that's good."

Darius' eyes twinkled. Without a word, he flagged down a stern-looking woman pushing a full kitchen cart between the tables. She made her way over.

Darius nodded to the cart. " _M'goi fung zao_."

Georgia raised her eyebrows. The woman picked up a covered bamboo platter and wedged it between the plates already on the table. She lifted off the cover. " _Sik fan_."

Darius briefly looked up from the food. " _M'goi_."

" _M'sai_." The woman rolled off towards another table.

Georgia waited until the woman was out of earshot. "You've got to be kidding me. You speak Chinese?"

"Cantonese. And no, not really. Just enough to order my favorite things without embarrassing myself." Darius buried his chopsticks in the quivering pile of gelatinous meat on the new plate. He brought them back out, and Georgia's eyes bugged.

"Is that...is that a...?"

"Chicken foot in black bean sauce." He grinned. "Open wide."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "I don't, I mean, I've never..."

"You don't have to, of course." Darius' face turned wicked. "But I never took you for a pussy."

Georgia spluttered on her next sip of tea.

Oh, no.

He had _not_ just...

Son of a bitch.

She glowered, but finished swallowing her tea. With a final petulant glare, she opened her mouth. Darius' grin turned downright evil. He deposited the chicken foot inside it, sat back and waited.

Georgia bit down with a wince.

Surprisingly, the foot wasn't too disgusting. She chewed experimentally. It wasn't disgusting at all, actually. Rich, decadent flavor bloomed on her tongue. The collagen was pleasantly chewy, the bones tiny and nonthreatening. Georgia chewed around one of the bigger ones, looked to Darius for guidance.

His lips twitched. "Just spit it onto your plate."

Georgia blinked.

Darius smirked. "Believe it or not, it's considered proper etiquette."

Georgia bent over and spat the bone onto her plate. She chewed around the others, spat them out in the same fashion. Darius watched silently. She finished, and he folded his hands over his stomach.

"What did you think?"

Georgia pursed her lips. Then she reached over and took another foot.

Darius let out a deep, rolling laugh. It transformed his entire face. His teeth flashed, impossibly white. His eyes gleamed.

She must have been staring, because he stopped, cocked his head at her. "What?"

Georgia shook herself. "Nothing. I...nothing." She took a deep breath. The air fluttered in her chest. "Smiles look good on you, is all."

His face changed again, and Georgia's next breath caught in her throat. He looked even hungrier than before they'd started eating. His gaze tracked over her, like he was deciding which part to devour first. Heat gathered deep in her belly, focused between her legs.

Whoa. Down, girl

Georgia left the chicken foot on her plate and took a heavy gulp of tea. Someone had apparently refilled it, because the hot liquid scalded her throat all the way down. She blinked hard.

Darius lifted his eyebrows.

She changed the subject again, to the only other thing she could think of. "There was this witch."

Darius wrapped his hands around his tea cup. "Yeah?"

Why the hell had she gone and brought that up? Georgia grimaced. Nothing for it, now. "She was the head of my last coven. I don't really know what we were, to be honest. We weren't quite friends. If I had to pick a word to describe her, 'mentor' would probably be it."

Darius settled back, his eyes steady on her face.

Georgia squirmed, and looked away. "At first we didn't talk much. I'd been going to their coven's Esbats for about a month, and it didn't look like it was going to work out. No big surprise. Most of the covens I've tried haven't."

She glanced back. Darius' forehead was furrowed. "The whole black magic thing?"

"Not just that." Georgia shrugged again. "The problem is, well, me. I'm too unorganized for ceremonial magicians, and the Neo-Wiccans all think I'm too dark. No one's ever quite sure how to work with me."

She waited for Darius to make a pithy comment. He only nodded. "Hmm."

Georgia sighed. "Anyway, Ellen—that was her name, Ellen Granch—somehow found out I was on the verge of leaving. She invited me to coffee, and it was nice, you know? At the end of it, she asked me to give their coven another chance." Georgia leaned back and crossed her legs under the table. "So I did."

Darius didn't speak.

Georgia traced the rim of her tea cup with one finger. "She was a professor of mythology over at San Francisco State, and let me tell you, she knew her shit. We worked spells together a couple times. It was incredible. Like magic on a whole new level." Something tightened in her chest. She stopped.

Darius' voice was quiet. "She was at Forest Hill."

Georgia nodded.

Sympathy flickered over his face. "I'm sorry."

Georgia forced a laugh. It sounded hollow, even to her. "Yeah. Story of my life."

They finished the meal in silence. Georgia managed a couple more bites of pork dumpling, then pushed her plate aside. Darius watched, but didn't say anything.

Finally, he set his chopsticks down, too. Georgia caught his eye. "Bez knows more than she's telling."

"I know."

She raised her eyebrows. "You believe me?"

"Her aura." His eyes met hers briefly. "I could tell by her aura."

His face was tense, like he was waiting for her to laugh at him. Georgia looked down and traced the rim of her tea cup. "You should go talk to her again."

He'd been reaching for his own cup. He stopped. "What? Why?"

"Because she sure as hell won't talk to me." Georgia tightened her jaw. "And I want to know what she didn't say."

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

#

The Black Magic Voodoo Lounge was empty when Darius walked in.

Bez's back was to the door. Her head went up when he entered, but she didn't turn. "Go ahead and sit anywhere. I'll be right with you."

Darius made his way up to the bar. He got as far as the corner barstool before Bez finally turned around. Her face blanched at the sight of him. Her lips thinned.

"No. Hell no."

"Nice to see you too." Darius slid onto the stool. "Look, I need your help. You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't."

"You mean your client needs my help." Bitterness tinged her voice. "Do you know who she is, D? What she is?"

"She's a witch. Just like you. Just like those people who died." Darius fixed his eyes on hers. "Are you going to let their killer run around free just because Georgia Clare rubs you the wrong way? Don't be petty, Bez. It's not a good look."

Bez scowled at the counter.

Darius made a frustrated noise. "Fine. I'll talk, you listen. I've been doing some digging. By the sounds of things, it was a demon did Forest Hill last week."

Bez's head jerked up. "A demon. Are you sure?"

"Yes." Darius faltered. "Relatively."

Bez gnawed on her lower lip, her eyes serious. "If that's true, then this is bad. Epic bad. The only time a demon gate-crashes the mundane realm is when someone has bound it to their will."

Darius nodded. It was close enough to what Father Gregory had said. "So I've heard."

"If someone in the guild has really bound a demon, the Witching Council is going to be all over it." Bez's expression darkened. "It wasn't _her_ , was it? Your black witch? Because if it was, and the Council finds out you're working for her—"

Darius stiffened. "It wasn't her."

"Look, D, it's not for me to judge who you work for, but—"

He didn't know what his face turned into, but Bez suddenly stopped. Darius leaned forward, ignored the fear that flashed in her eyes. "I'm only going to say this once, so you listen good. You've known me a long time, Elizabeth Owen. You know what I used to be. If I hear you've been spreading rumors Georgia Clare was responsible for all this, there'll be trouble between us."

Bez swallowed visibly.

Darius leaned back again. "Like I said, I'm here because I need your help. Can you help me or not?"

Bez's face wavered between indignation and submission. She finally ducked down behind the bar. Darius had a flash of deja-vu. Sure enough, she straightened holding a pen and a notepad. Lips pressed together, she wrote something down on the top paper, tore it off and shoved it at him.

Unlike last time, the address was clearly legible. Darius recognized it immediately. "What's in The Mission?"

"Not what. Who." Bez grabbed a limp-looking rag and began swabbing the bar. "Helena Reyes. She's a curandera, lives at that address. Papa's been sourcing our herbs from her for almost a decade." She glanced up at him. "She's the only person in this city who might stock ingredients for a demon-binding spell."

Darius slid the paper into his breast pocket. "Thanks."

"Ask her."

His hand froze inside his jacket. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew it again. "What are you talking about?"

"Your black witch." Bez set to work on a water ring. "The next time you see her, ask her about that demon. Ask her about Helena Reyes, while you're at it."

A sudden sense of foreboding turned his blood cold. Darius kept his face carefully blank, and stood. "See you around, Bez."

He was halfway to the door when Bez's voice stopped him. "You know, you could call me."

Darius turned. "What?"

"I mean, other than when you need something." Bez straightened. She shrugged, but the look on her face was painfully earnest. "We could have a lot of fun."

"I bet we could." Darius shook his head and continued on to the exit. He reached the door, paused, and turned back around. Bez hadn't moved. The rag dangled, forgotten, from her hand.

Guilt twinged in his chest. Darius met her eyes one last time. "Soon as I come to my senses, I'll let you know."

† † †

In spite of her best efforts, Georgia's stomach gave a lurch when she pulled up outside The Procyon.

If Darius noticed, he didn't mention it. He swung off the back of Dolores in a smooth, practiced motion. Without a word, he headed for the side entrance. Georgia hesitated near the curb. He half-turned. "You coming?"

Georgia gritted her teeth, but followed him inside.

Neither Daniel Zerubabbel nor Aloysius Paul were anywhere in sight. Georgia hovered behind Darius as he hit the button for the elevator, half-expecting one or both of them to materialize out of the perfect white tile. She couldn't get Daniel's pale blue eyes out of her head, and Aloysius Paul's enticing scent still lingered in her nostrils. Her head started to spin at the memory of it.

The elevator dinged. She jumped.

Darius gave her a strange look as the doors slid open. "What's gotten in to you?"

Georgia coughed. "Nothing." She side-stepped him and strode purposefully into the elevator car. Darius gave her another strange look, and stepped in after her. The doors slid shut, and the elevator started its slow ascent.

The silence inside the car was deafening. Georgia crossed her arms. Uncrossed them again. Then she cleared her throat. Darius turned to her. She took one look at his expression, and kept her mouth shut.

The doors finally opened on the cramped third floor hallway. Georgia allowed Darius to lead the way to MacMillian and deCompostela's door. She didn't speak while he unlocked it. They tramped single-file through the reception room and MacMillian's office.

Darius' office was quiet and cool. She waited until he shut the door behind them. Then she released a breath. "I hope Bez gave you something. I've thrown bell, book, and candle at this thing, and so far all we have is a big, steaming pile of what-the-fuck."

Darius snorted. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slip of paper, passed it to her and leaned back against his desk. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched her, an indecipherable expression on his face.

Georgia unfolded the paper and read the address scrawled on it. She glanced up. "What's this?"

His expression didn't change. "The address of one of the suppliers for King Papa's House Of Hoodoo. You don't recognize it?"

Georgia shrugged. "I get all my stuff mail-order. Who's the supplier?"

Darius' gaze didn't waver. "Helena Reyes."

Georgia froze. Icy dread sank to the pit of her stomach. "No."

Darius raised his eyebrows. "No, what?"

"No, we're not going." _Shit_. Georgia rubbed a hand over her face. "Trust me, D, you don't want anything to do with that...that..."

Darius' eyes flashed. "So you do know her."

_Shit, shit, shit_. "We've met."

"What's the problem?" Darius peeled away from the desk. "If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you were scared. Or hiding something."

There was a decidedly dangerous note in his voice. His movements were deliberate, predatory. Georgia swallowed hard. The entire office seemed to heat a few degrees. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Darius was still moving, inserting himself into her space. "Of course not. After all, that would go directly against our agreement. You remember: no secrets, no lies. You promised to tell me everything."

A shiver snaked down her spine.

Darius' eyes sharpened. "You're looking a little nervous." His voice went deceptively silky. "Know what I think?"

Georgia didn't move. "I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

"I think you're afraid of what this Helena Reyes might say. I think there's still something you don't want me to know." His eyes burned into hers. "You know, Bez thinks you called up that demon."

Georgia choked. "What?"

"Funny thing, lately I've met a lot of people who think just like her." Darius was so close she could feel his heat. It rolled off him in waves. "Why is that, Ms. Clare? What do they know that I don't? Why are so many people telling me I shouldn't play with you?"

Holy hell, she needed air. Georgia took a backwards step towards the door.

Darius closed a firm hand around her arm. Georgia stopped short. Suddenly, her chest felt too tight. She forced a deep breath through her nose. "So what do you tell them?"

Darius' eyes dropped to her mouth. A sound like a growl rumbled in his chest. "I tell them I'll play with whoever I want."

She didn't have time to react. His hands locked around her hips. His head dipped down. His lips captured hers.

Fucking finally.

If she'd stopped to think, she would have remembered why kissing him was a bad idea. But Georgia didn't stop to think. She raked her hands up his solid chest, fisted them around the lapels of his beautiful suit. The fabric would wrinkle. For some reason, that pleased her.

He'd called her a liar. The word burned in the base of her throat. No matter it was true; no one had ever called her that. Not to her face. Who did he think he was? What right did he have to judge her? She'd ignored his veiled insults, the deliberate slights against who she was. What she was.

Enough was enough. Now he was going to pay. For all of it.

Georgia wrenched him closer, released his suit and slid her hands up further, to the piercings in his ears she'd discovered were so exquisitely sensitive. She gave one a tweak. Sure enough, a shudder wracked his powerful body. She gave the other a tweak. A growl rumbled in his chest.

Georgia opened her mouth and found his lower lip with her tongue. Darius' breath caught, then his mouth opened too. His tongue met hers, coiled and stroked until her knees started to weaken. Slowly, the angry starch melted from her spine. Georgia's legs quivered. She sagged into him, his large body impossibly hard against hers.

The room was spinning. It took her a second to realize it actually _was_ spinning, then the backs of her legs hit something solid. The desk. Darius' hands moved downward from her hips, glided smoothly over her ass and settled lower.

He lifted, and she found herself seated on the desktop. He tugged. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

Georgia forgot to breathe. She could feel the thick ridge of his cock through the relatively thin fabric of his trousers. Her stomach hollowed out. She dug the heels of her motorcycle boots into his rear and urged him closer. Darius grunted softly. His tongue dipped deeper, stroked the inside of her mouth. One rough thumb traced the underside of her jaw.

Georgia rocked against him. They both groaned. She tried it again. Darius' lips broke from hers. Bliss and restraint warred over his face. Georgia started to reach between them.

His hand came down on her wrist. "Wait."

Georgia twisted. She didn't want to wait. She wanted more. She wanted contact. God, how long since she'd made actual contact with somebody?

Darius' grip tightened. "Wait."

Something in his voice made her pause. She looked up, and froze. His face was hard. His eyes were harder. A muscle flexed in his jaw. He stared down at her.

We can't.

He might have said it out loud. More likely, she had read his mind. Whichever the case, the truth of it was etched in the frozen lines of his expression.

I don't work with people like you.

The air whooshed out of her in a single, painful exhalation. They couldn't. Of course they couldn't. They might be after the same thing, but they were on different sides. Darius suspected it, even if he didn't understand why.

Georgia knew it for sure.

He was already backing away when she hopped down from the desk. Her legs shook, but held. Darius reached out a hand. "Georgia, I'm—"

Georgia gave her head a vicious shake. Her stomach rolled. If she had to hear him apologize for kissing her again, she was going to vomit. She mumbled something that to her ears sounded like, "Later, deCompostela."

Then she ducked her head and made her escape.

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

#

He had all night to fester over what happened in his office. By morning, he had reached one inescapable conclusion.

He'd been an asshole.

Darius stood outside the door to Georgia's apartment, a to-go cup from the cafe across the street clutched in one hand. It was the best—hell, the only—apology he could think of, and it wasn't even close to enough. He and Georgia had been in lock-step practically since the day he'd taken her case. She'd had his back, patched him up, proved herself twice and three times over. She'd never given him reason to question her loyalties.

But he had. Constantly. Behind her back, and to her face. Worse, he'd let his own insecurities cloud his judgement. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost all objectivity; him, the one person who should have known better.

The revelation chafed like hell.

Darius stared at her door. A seed of hesitation took root in his mind. Maybe he should have buzzed her apartment, instead of slipping into the building behind the woman in the Crocs and floral leggings. What if she wasn't home? What if she didn't want to see him?

He locked his jaw. If she didn't want to see him, she could look him in the eye and tell him to go to hell. He took a deep breath and knocked.

There was silence, then a crash sounded from somewhere inside. Darius tensed, but it didn't sound violent. If anything, it sounded like someone falling out of bed. He forced himself to wait. A few seconds went by, then the door opened.

Georgia was in her sleep tank and yoga pants. Her hair swirled around her head in a riotous purple mane, and her skin had a noticeable sallow tinge to it. She blinked out at him, a disgruntled expression on her face.

Darius opened his mouth. He'd had something to say, he was sure of it, but now he didn't have the slightest idea what it might have been. Instead, he shoved the to-go cup at her. "Coffee."

Georgia gave him a wary look, but accepted it. "What are you doing here?" She blinked again. Her eyes cleared somewhat. "And how the hell did you get through the security door?"

"I followed someone." Darius shifted, glanced up and down the empty hallway. "Can I come in?"

Georgia pursed her lips, but moved out of his way.

Darius wiped his feet on the bare patch of carpet in front of the door, then stepped inside. His eye immediately fell on the fresh glass in the bay window. "You got your window fixed."

"The landlady." Georgia cracked the lid off the cup, stuck her face in the steam that wafted out.

"She mention anything about it?"

Georgia closed the lid again. "Let's just say we're not on the best of terms at the moment."

Darius _hmmed_ lamely.

Georgia turned on her heel and retreated into the bedroom. She spoke over her shoulder just before she disappeared through the doorway. "You still haven't said why you're here."

Darius didn't know where he was supposed to stand. He opted to stay where he was. "Helena Reyes."

Georgia stuck her head around the door frame. "The answer's still no." She disappeared again.

Darius sighed. "It's all we have right now, and you know it. Besides, you're the one who thought Bez might give me something. This is what she gave me."

A humph filtered out of the room.

"What's the deal with the two of you, anyway? I never did get the story about why she hates you so much."

Silence.

Darius craned his neck to see inside. A flash of creamy white skin greeted him. He jerked his head back. It took a moment for him to collect himself. He changed the subject.

"So, Helena Reyes. How exactly do you know her?"

There was a long pause, then a loud sigh. "I used to buy from her, a long time ago."

"I thought you got all your supplies mail-order."

"Like I said, it was a long time ago."

Darius started to retort, but then Georgia strode back out of the room. She had exchanged her pajamas for jeans, a black bra, and nothing else. Darius' jaw slackened. He shook himself, and locked it back in place.

Seemingly oblivious, Georgia brushed past him, retrieved her harness boots from the wall near the door and continued into the living room. A black t-shirt lay draped over the arm of the couch. She picked it up and tugged it over her head. Then she looked up. Their eyes locked.

She arched an eyebrow. "Problem?"

He didn't know what to make of her tone, or the look on her face. He shook his head stiffly, his mouth dry. "Of course not."

Georgia reached into her boots and pulled out a pair of socks. She balanced on one foot, jammed the other foot into the first sock. "By the way, I got you something. Well, technically got it a few days ago, I just kept forgetting to give it to you. Over there, on the counter."

Darius collected his scattered wits and made his way into the kitchen. On the counter was a glossy black helmet. He whistled low, picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He glanced up. "This looks new."

Georgia tugged on her left boot. "Yeah, I didn't think my spare would fit you." She took in his expression. "Don't read anything into it. If we take a spill, I need your thick skull in one piece. That's all."

Darius cleared his throat. "I'll pay you back. Just give me the receipt."

"It's around here somewhere. I'll find it later." Georgia switched feet, hopped a few times as she pulled on the other sock. She planted her foot briefly, lifted it again to pull on her boot. She tilted dangerously.

Darius reached her in two long strides, and caught her a split-second before she toppled over. He could feel the quick breath she sucked in, but kept his hands braced against her arms as she yanked on her boot. Her eyes stayed fixed in the center of his chest.

From his height, he could see straight down the v-neck of her shirt. His eyes locked on the thin line of shadow between her breasts. A delicate flush hovered just beneath her skin. Try as he might, he couldn't look away.

She looked up and met his eyes. Darius had to remind himself to breathe. His gaze shifted to her lips.

Blackberries.

She tasted like blackberries.

He released her too quickly. She weaved a little before catching herself. Darius started to steady her again, at the last minute thought better of it. He retreated into the kitchen and retrieved the helmet from the counter.

"We'd better get going."

† † †

The address on the paper took them to a gently-sloping hill on the outskirts of The Mission. Packed with parked cars, the street exuded an air of quiet domesticity. The sidewalks were lined with tall trees and old Victorians, the crumbling exteriors painted varying shades of ochre, terra cotta, and adobe-white.

Except for one.

The house that corresponded to the address was a bright, if shabby, teal; a slender, three-story Stick Victorian with chipped white detailing and a flat roof. Unlike the other houses on the street, which boasted small, verdant front gardens, it sat flush against the sidewalk. A narrow staircase zig-zagged up to the second-level front door.

Darius took his helmet off the instant Georgia parked. With vents all around the neck, the inside had stayed surprisingly cool. Even so, he wasn't used to the vaguely claustrophobic experience of having his entire head encased in plastic. He eased off the back of Dolores, and started towards the house.

It took him a moment to realize Georgia wasn't following.

Darius turned to where she was still firmly planted on the seat of the Valk. She had removed her helmet and was staring up at the house, an apprehensive look on her face. Darius tucked his own helmet under his arm. "Problem?"

Her eyes snapped to his face. "Why would there be a problem?"

He arched an eyebrow. "You tell me."

Georgia's lips disappeared into a thin line. Without a word, she dismounted and started towards the stairs. She took the steps two at a time. Darius was close on her heels. He crowded onto the landing next to her, bent down and spoke into her ear. "You still haven't told me about you and Helena."

He couldn't see her face, but the gloved finger she jammed on the doorbell shook slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit." Darius rubbed a frustrated hand over his head. "Damn it, Georgia, we've been over this. I said you had to tell me every—"

"Everything? Back at you, deCompostela." Georgia glared up at him. "When exactly were you planning to tell me you knew about the demimonde?"

Darius scowled. "That was different."

"Or that you were a medium? That might have been nice to know."

He clenched his teeth. How had she turned this against him? "It's not the same thing."

"Cut the crap, D." She turned to him, chin out. "It's exactly the same thing. Are you really going to stand there and pretend our entire association hasn't consisted of us keeping things from each other?"

Something sank in the pit of his stomach. Darius opened his mouth.

At that moment, the front door swung inward. Both he and Georgia turned as one. A tiny, wrinkled woman in a matronly housedress stood in the doorway. She looked from one of them to the other. Her paper-thin brows drew together. " _Sí_?"

"Ah," Darius wracked his brain for any lingering traces of high school Spanish. " _Hola, señora. Yo necessito habla_ , er, _hablo con_..." He blew out a breath. "Damn it."

The wrinkles in the woman's forehead deepened. " _Que?_ "

Georgia coughed, a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. She inclined her head to the woman. " _Hola, Abuela. Esta Helena, por favor?_ "

The woman nodded. " _Ella esta con un patiente. Pásele_."

Helpless, Darius looked to Georgia. She motioned him with a jerk of her head. "Come on."

Darius stared. "You speak Spanish?"

Georgia smirked up at him. "Enough so that I don't embarrass myself."

Darius bit back a growl, and followed her inside.

The house felt smaller than it looked from the outside. A thousand different smells suffused the old walls: smoke, dried herbs, melted wax. There was the rich aroma of cooking food; enchiladas, if he wasn't mistaken. Darius followed Georgia and the older woman through the cramped front hall, past a steep staircase and a doorway that opened into a parlor shrouded in shadow.

They turned down another cramped hallway. This one was lined with doors, all closed. Muffled voices filtered through the last door. The woman stopped in front of it and turned to them. " _Helena esta trabajando una barrida. Silencio, por favor_."

Georgia half-turned. When she spoke, her voice was low. "She says Helena's doing a sweep. We have to be quiet."

Darius laid a hand on her arm before she could turn back around. "A sweep? What's that?"

"A spiritual cleansing." Georgia waited for him to release her, then ticked her head in a _come-on_ gesture. "You'll see."

The woman's gaze wavered back and forth between them. Apparently satisfied, she closed one clawlike hand around the doorknob and gave the door a gentle push. Then she ushered them inside.

The room wasn't quite dark, but it came close. Darius could vaguely make out a chair, and someone sitting on it. A shadowy figure moved around them in a seamless, ongoing circle, sweeping the seated person with...something. Darius squinted, but he couldn't tell what.

" _De las doce verdades del mundo, decidme nueve: los nueve meses de María_."

The words were coming from the shadowy figure; a woman, he could tell now. Darius didn't know what she was saying, but he could guess. Her voice was measured, monotone: a chant. A spell?

" _De las doce verdades del mundo, decidme diez: los diez mandamientos_."

Strange, it didn't feel like a spell. Not quite. At least, it didn't feel like any of the spells Georgia used. It didn't have the same spark, carry the same charge. It felt lighter. More like a suggestion than an order.

" _De las doce verdades del mundo, decidme once: las once mil vírgenes_."

They moved out of the doorway, and into a corner. The woman didn't look at them. She swept the seated person's back, front, sides. Darius squinted at the object she was using. It was a plant of some kind. He still couldn't make out what.

The woman gave a final sweep, and stepped back. " _De las doce verdades del mundo, decidme doce: las doce apóstoles que acompanaron a nuestro Señor en la cruz."_ She retreated to a small table in the opposite corner, set the plant sprig down and picked a small glass bowl. Clear liquid sloshed inside.

She carried it back to the center of the room, dipped her fingertips in it and pressed them to her patient's forehead. She repeated the motion, this time reached around and anointed the base of his skull. _"Amén_."

She returned the bowl to the table, picked up the plant again. A lighter appeared in her hand; where she'd pulled it from, Darius couldn't be sure. She struck it to life, and touched the flame to the tip of the mystery plant. A puff of acrid smoke billowed into the air. Darius wrinkled his nose. He recognized the smell now: rosemary. The woman dropped the burning sprig into a solid-looking bowl.

She didn't speak until it had burned to ash. Then she crossed back to the chair and laid a hand on the seated person's shoulder. " _Bueno_ , Hector. _Cómo te sientes_?"

Darius took stock of the room while the curandera and her patient had what sounded like a post-op discussion in Spanish. What little he could make out in the semi-darkness appeared relatively mundane. There was the small table on the opposite wall, the chair in the center of the floor, a window covered with thick blackout curtains.

The conversation finally ebbed. The old woman stepped forward, and murmured something to the curandera. Darius forced himself to wait patiently. The younger woman listened, looked sharply at him and Georgia. Then she nodded, and motioned for Hector to follow the other woman out.

None of them spoke until the door clicked shut. Then the woman went to the window. She flipped the curtains open, and light flooded into the room. Darius blinked.

Helena Reyes had the kind of lush beauty that would make any man with a pulse stand a little straighter: long, glossy black hair. Smooth, tawny complexion. Mouth-watering curves. She turned back to them. Something in her dark brown eyes said she knew exactly what to do with all of it.

Those eyes bypassed him and went straight to Georgia. Helena made a derisive sound and crossed her arms over her chest. "Georgia Clare. You got some nerve, showing up here."

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

#

Shit.

Georgia swallowed the tight ball of anxiety that lodged in her throat. She knew this had been a mistake. "Helena. Been a long time."

"Not long enough." Helena glowered. "What the hell do you want?"

Georgia twisted. Darius' eyes were burning a slow hole in the side of her face. She refused to look at him. "Bez sent us. We have a problem, and she seems to think you can help."

Helena let out a disbelieving snort. "You can't be serious."

Shit, shit, shit. Georgia twisted some more. The last thing she needed was Helena taking a trip down memory lane with Darius there to listen in. They were on shaky enough ground already. Their relationship—or partnership, or whatever the hell it was—definitely wouldn't survive any sordid revelations Helena might provide.

Georgia took a deep breath and forged ahead. "You heard about the massacre up in Forest Hill last week?"

"Of course I did," Helena snapped. "It's been all over the news." Her face went slack. " _Díos mio_. That wasn't _you_ , was it?"

"What? No! God..." Georgia aimed a quick glance at Darius. "We're just looking into it, is all."

Helena's gaze finally moved to Darius. She looked him up and down, pursed her lips. When she spoke, her voice was decidedly friendlier. "I'm sorry. I don't believe we've met, Mister...?"

"deCompostela." Georgia ground his name through clenched teeth. "Mr. deCompostela."

Helena's eyebrows went up. Then a knowing look suffused her face. When she turned to Darius again, her gaze was decidedly more predatory.

Georgia resisted the urge to plant a fist in her smug mouth. She shifted until she stood between Helena and her target. "Well? Can you help us, or not?"

Helena's lips turned down at the corners.

Before Georgia could say anything else, warmth suffused her thigh. She looked down. Darius had placed a deceptively casual hand on her hip. Heat radiated from his palm, spread outward from his fingertips.

Her brain emptied.

He smoothly plucked the reins from her tenuous grasp. Without removing his hand, he nodded to Helena. "My apologies, Ms. Reyes. I realize this is a little strange. I'm a private investigator. Ms. Clare hired me to look into the killings."

Helena's eyes shifted from his hand on Georgia's hip, up to his face. "And why would she do that?"

Darius shrugged. "Concerned citizen."

This time, Georgia snorted in unison with Helena.

Darius didn't acknowledge either of them. "I saw Bez yesterday. She speaks highly of you."

Helena's frown deepened. "I doubt that very much."

Darius finally started to look lost. He shifted. "Please, Ms. Reyes. I've known Bez for some time. She wouldn't have sent us here without good reason. There must be some way you can help us. Something you know."

Helena looked back at his hand, then at Georgia. "I know lots of thing, Mr. deCompostela."

Georgia held her breath.

Helena held her eyes for a moment. Then a mask slid down over her face. She turned back to Darius. "Unfortunately, nothing that would help your investigation. I'm sorry. Truly, I am. But I don't know what Bez was talking about." She ushered them to the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

She opened the door to reveal her abuela waiting in the hallway. The hunch-shouldered old woman was as good as a bouncer. Georgia scarcely had time to blink before she and Darius found themselves back on the front stoop.

A vague sense of déjà vu washed over her. At this rate, she was on her way to getting kicked out of every house in San Francisco. From inside, Helena's abuela gave them one last, hard look. Then she shut the door.

Georgia scowled, and started down the steps. After a moment's pause, Darius started down after her. She spoke over her shoulder. "I told you that was a bad idea."

"Yeah, well, you could have warned me you two had _that_ kind of history." They reached the sidewalk. Darius quickened his pace until he walked beside her. "Goddamn, are there any witches in this city you haven't crossed?"

Georgia stiffened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know damn well." Darius shook his head. "You really don't try to get along with anyone, do you?"

"What's the point? Never does any good." Georgia reached the edge of the curb, started to step down.

Darius caught her arm. "Hey."

Georgia sighed. "Something else?"

"You tell me." Darius waited until her eyes finally found his. "I told you I don't like getting involved in things without knowing all the facts, but that's exactly what's happened here, isn't it?"

Georgia tried to look away. Couldn't.

Darius' hand slipped down to encircle her wrist. "There's something you're not telling me. Bez knows about it, whatever it is. So does Kristof. So did our Ms. Reyes back there." His dark eyes bored into hers. His thumb slid over her pulse. "Let's have it."

Georgia felt her mouth drift open. She wanted to tell him. God, she wanted to tell him. She searched his face.

His expression changed before her very eyes; both softened and hardened at the same time. "Georgia." His voice sounded huskier. "Whatever it is, just tell me. It won't change anything."

Georgia swallowed hard. "I..."

Hope burned in her chest. She wanted to believe that. To believe him. Before he entered her life, no one had ever tried to bring her out of the shadows. She hadn't even thought it was possible, but fuck if he wasn't succeeding, bit by bit.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she could tell him everything.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a flash flood of doubt washed it away. He might think nothing would change, but she knew better. Everything would change. Her chest tightened.

Not yet, damn it. He doesn't need to find out yet.

Georgia bit the inside of her cheek and lifted her chin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Of course he recognized the lie. She hadn't even tried to hide it. His face turned to stone. His grip tightened around her wrist. "Damn it, woman. I'm trying to help you." His voice remained low, even. "Why won't you let me?"

He'd somehow moved closer without her noticing. The heat from his body had sweat beading on her forehead—or maybe that was due to something else. Darius leaned down until their lips were scarcely a whisper apart. "I don't like games, Ms. Clare." His voice turned dangerous. "I especially don't like being played. Remember that before you lie to me again."

Suddenly, she couldn't seem to get a full breath. Georgia gave her wrist a sharp jerk. He released her, then backed away. The sudden return of fresh oxygen made her head spin.

Darius stepped off the curb and strode over to Dolores. "You headed towards downtown?"

She debated not answering, but couldn't keep up the defiance. "Yeah."

"I'll ride with you as far as Market. Then you can let me off."

Georgia ground her teeth. She didn't want to care what he was up to, but her curiosity got the better of her. "Something going on?"

He gave a short nod. "Yep."

"Anything I should know about?"

She couldn't get an accurate read on his expression. His answer was clipped and succinct.

"Nope."

† † †

Darius had just finished his first drink when Kristof walked into the bar.

The other man glanced around, a vaguely offended expression on his face. Finally, he picked his way across the floor, his feet sticking slightly with each step. He cringed at the barstool next to Darius, whipped the pocket square from his berry-colored smoking jacket and wiped it thoroughly. Then he perched on the edge with a grimace.

Darius didn't look up. "You're late."

"You're lucky I came at all." Kristof glanced around again. "Of course you had to pick the dive-y-est dive bar this side of Market. I think that door handle just gave me a venereal disease."

Darius coughed, and signaled the bartender.

Kristof glanced at his empty glass. "Little early for you, isn't it?"

It was, but he didn't need someone pointing it out. "Shut up."

Kristof snorted. "Don't be a dick to me just because your black witch has you all bent out of shape. We go back too far for that."

Darius blew out a breath. "Yeah. About that." Before he could get any further, the bartender appeared. Darius nudged his glass towards him. "Another."

Kristof raised his eyebrows. He waited until the bartender shuffled off, then turned back to Darius. "Drinking our lunch today, are we? What's gotten into you?"

Darius scowled down at the scarred bar. No way was he about to admit to Kristof just how much Georgia had gotten under his skin. He should be angry with her—hell, he should be furious, the lying little witch. But all he could think about was how neatly her wrist had notched into his hand. How soft her skin was, how delicate the flutter of her pulse had felt against his thumb...

Kristof's eyebrows ticked up another notch. "Shit. Don't tell me she put a spell on you."

Darius sneered.

The bartender returned with his shot of Grey Goose. Darius slid him a few bills, tilted back the glass and drained it in one swallow.

Kristof shook his head. "Must have been some spell."

Darius bit back a growl. "You have no idea."

Kristof blinked, but let it slide. "So, I'm assuming you called me here for a reason. That is, unless you just wanted to pour your heart out while we paint our nails and braid each other's hair." He aimed a pointed look at Darius' bald head. "Well, while you braid my hair, anyway."

Darius snorted. "Asshole." His chest felt a little lighter, though. Whether it was the ribbing or the alcohol, he couldn't be sure. He slid a sidelong glance at the platinum-haired witch. "I saw Father Gregory the other day. I told him about the case."

Kristof stilled. "Really."

"Yeah."

Kristof stared at him for a moment. Then he lifted a finger and signaled the bartender. "Excuse me. Two more of whatever he just had."

Neither of them spoke while they waited. A few minutes later, the bartender slid matching vodka shots across the bar. Kristof waved Darius off and paid for them both. They each sipped wordlessly.

Kristof was the first to break the silence. "Are you sure that was wise?"

Darius sighed. "No. But he was the only person I could think of who didn't have some kind of angle in this thing."

Kristof's eyes were hard. "He's a Catholic. They always have an angle."

"And what would that be?" Darius took a heavier sip, sucked in a breath as the vodka blazed a fiery trail down his throat. "So a coven of witches gets murdered. No harm no foul, as far as they're concerned. Hell, whoever it was did them a favor."

"I can't believe you just said that." Kristof stared at him. "Did you seriously just say that?"

"I'm not saying I like it." Darius fingered the rim of his glass. "You know I don't. I'm just saying out of all the people I've talked to so far, Father Gregory was the only one who didn't have some kind of agenda."

Kristof's lips thinned. "You think I have an agenda."

"Don't sound so hurt. It's not like I blame you. This whole thing is a shit storm in the making, and you and yours are right in the middle." Darius leaned forward. "Whatever you've got going on, I just wish you'd tell me. Maybe I could help."

Kristof barked out a surprised laugh. "Who are you, and what have you done with Darius deCompostela? Seriously, did you just offer to get involved in subversive business?" He peered at him a little closer. "Maybe Georgia Clare really did put a spell on you."

Darius leaned back again. "Fuck you."

"I'm flattered, but I like us better as friends." Kristof's eyes grew serious. "I'll tell you, if you're sure you want to know. But you're walking a fine fucking line here, Darius. Don't forget, I know the wolves you've been keeping at bay. They're going to get a hell of a lot more persistent if word gets out you're involved in this."

Darius grimaced. "I'm already involved. I might as well know what I'm dealing with."

"Whatever you say." Kristof paused, as if trying to decide where to begin. "How much do you know about the Witching Council?"

Darius thought for a moment. Not a lot, aside from what Georgia had told him, and she had reason to be biased. "Not much. I was under the impression they ran the community around here."

Kristof nodded. "They do. We witches generally keep ourselves to ourselves. The powers-that-be know that. They know we don't need much convincing to keep away from the mundanes."

Darius took a sip of vodka. "I bet."

Kristof made a face. "I swear. Tell someone you're a vampire or a werewolf and they think it's sexy. Tell someone you're a witch and they go from zero to Torquemada in three seconds flat." He huffed and sipped his drink. "Anyway, point is, it's in our best interests to keep a low profile."

Darius pursed his lips. "I'm guessing what happened in Forest Hill shot that to hell."

"Congratulations on the understatement of the century." Kristof's face darkened. "You mentioned a shit storm. Well, this is it. Word is, the Council's been given an ultimatum. Either we get our own house in order, or someone else is going to do it for us."

Darius lowered his voice. "The Watchmen?"

Kristof nodded. "That general of theirs is a real hardass. And she's less than thrilled about the attention this Forest Hill debacle has brought in. She's drawn a line in the sand." He looked down. "The Council is doing its best to keep a lid on it, but that won't work forever. Word is going to get out. When it does..." Kristof trailed off.

Darius whistled softly. "Well, shit."

"You can say that again." Kristof took another, deeper pull from his glass. "The Council has put me on point. I'm supposed to find out what the fuck is going on, and deal with it accordingly. 'Whatever it takes' were the exact words." He glanced at Darius. "Your girl thought the water was hot before? It's about to come to a boil."

Darius stared. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. "You can't believe she had anything to do with this."

"I don't. That's why I'm warning you." Kristof looked grim. "Unfortunately, it's not entirely up to me. There are a lot of people in the guild who can't see much farther than what's in front of them, and right now, what's in front of them is Georgia. If the tide turns against her, I doubt I'll be able to hold it back."

Darius didn't answer.

Kristof took a deep breath. "Right. Enough of that. Learn anything interesting from your priest?"

It was Darius' turn to look grim. "He thinks we're dealing with a demon."

Kristof groaned. "Tell me you're joking."

"I wish." Darius swirled the last of the clear liquid in his shot glass. "Bez knows. I went by to see her the other day. She thinks Georgia called it up."

"She would." Kristof's voice carried a tinge of bitterness. "Those two have always been at cross odds."

"Any idea why?"

Kristof shrugged. "Honestly, I always got the feeling Bez was a little jealous. I mean, she's decent enough at her craft, but nowhere near your girl's league. Georgia Clare is one of the most powerful witches I've ever seen." He caught Darius' eye. "One of the most dangerous, too."

There was more to that story; he could see it on Kristof's face. Darius considered asking for details. He had a feeling Kristof was hoping he would. In the end, he merely leaned an elbow on the bar. "So, a demon."

Surprise flickered over Kristof's face, then he sighed. "A demon. Shit." He plucked at his lower lip. "What else did Bez have to say?"

Darius lifted a shoulder, dropped it again. "She sent us to some folk healer in The Mission. Helena Reyes. I got the feeling she knew something, but one look at Georgia and she clammed up."

"Helena Reyes. I know that name." Kristof's forehead furrowed. Then his eyes popped wide. "Of course. She was involved in a scandal of some sort, about ten years back." He shook his head. "I never got the ins and outs, but it was bad. From what I remember, she almost had to leave San Francisco."

"Well whatever she did, she seemed pretty hot to keep her nose to herself this time around." Darius shook his head. "I'm starting to run low on leads. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."

Kristof started to pluck at his lip again. "You know, there is still one person you haven't talked to."

Darius stiffened. Something ominous and uncomfortable twisted in his gut. "No. Don't say it. Don't even think it."

Kristof raised his hands. "Hey, you're the one who said you're running out of leads. Name someone else who knows more about demonic rituals and infernal entities."

Darius pressed his lips together.

Kristof leaned forward. "That's what I thought. There isn't anyone better, and you know it."

Darius closed his eyes. He couldn't seriously be considering this. He'd known from the moment he left, there could be no going back. Not ever. Not if he valued breathing.

He thought about Georgia, the Witching Council poised over her neck like some shadowy sword of Damocles. This wasn't just about solving a few murders anymore. What would happen to her if enough people decided she was guilty? Darius opened his eyes again.

Kristof was watching him, a sympathetic look on his face. "I take it you know what you need to do."

Darius clenched his jaw, unclenched it again. "Yeah. I know." He tipped back the last of his shot, then slammed the empty glass on the bar. What the hell. He'd broken all his other rules for her. What was one more?

It was time to go home.

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

#

The light rail was eight minutes late.

Darius resisted the urge to pace along the narrow platform, instead peered up the track for what felt like the hundredth time. Nothing. He settled back on his heels. Damn, but he missed his suit. His leather jacket felt stiff and constricting, his lace-up boots too heavy on his feet. And when was the last time he'd worn jeans? He couldn't even remember.

He tightened his jaw. He'd just have to deal with it. Where he was headed, a suit would only draw attention, and attention was one thing he was hoping to avoid. Get in, get out. That was the plan. If he was lucky, no one would realize he'd been there until he was safely back home.

Darius peered up the track again, tugged out his cell and checked the time. Ten minutes late. Not that he was in a rush.

What was Georgia up to? He hadn't seen or spoken to her since they'd left Helena's. Guilt tugged at him. Maybe he'd been too hard on her. Lord knew she wasn't the only one playing things close to the vest.

Several times he'd almost called her, only to think better of it at the last minute. What would he say? If he told her where he was going, she'd only want to come along. His old hood was no place for someone like her.

It's no place for someone like you, either.

Darius swallowed hard.

A hum along the tracks made him look up. Sure enough, the Southbound train was swiftly approaching. It slid up to the stop with a hiss. There were only a few other people on the platform. Darius fell into step behind a young woman in a loose shirt and leggings, and shuffled aboard.

The train was only sparsely occupied. Darius sank into an empty seat just as it started moving again. The Dogpatch whirled by in a blur of concrete, condos, and industrial lofts.

He barely noticed.

How long since he'd been back home? Ten years? Fifteen? He'd stopped keeping track around the time he'd finally stopped looking over his shoulder. At the time, leaving had seemed too good to be true. He'd spent months feeling like he was half a step ahead of some nameless specter; like if he let his guard down, even for a second, whatever it was would drag him right back where he'd come from.

It hadn't happened. The knock on his door never came. No one had hunted him down at his work, jumped him in some dark alley—and he'd certainly been in plenty of those over the years. Life had simply moved on.

Eventually, he'd moved on with it.

Darius rubbed his face. How many of the people he knew were still on the same block? Hell, how many were still alive? The Point wasn't exactly known for its high life expectancy. His blood chilled several degrees. He crossed his arms and stared out the window.

Dogpatch's gritty urban-chic gave way to squat storage warehouses and truck rental lots. The train continued cheerfully over the Islais Creek Channel, onto a seemingly endless stretch of road. The first signs of redevelopment appeared: block after endless block of neat, new-looking industrial centers. Tree-lined sidewalks gave the area an almost suburban feel.

What was Georgia doing right now? On impulse, Darius pulled out his phone and checked the call log. Nothing. He furrowed his brow. Surely she would have called by now. No matter how they'd left things; she'd be curious where he'd gone. She'd want to know if he'd learned anything, what the plan was.

Wouldn't she?

He didn't realize the train had reached Hunters Point until he missed his stop. The doors slid shut with an electronic ding. Darius surged to his feet, too late. He swore as the scenery started to roll by outside the window, slowly at first, then faster. A few other passengers glanced at him. Darius sank back down. Damn it. He'd planned to take the back way in.

Now he had to waltz in through the front door.

Darius glanced around. Aside from those brief curious glances, no one seemed to see him, let alone recognize him. He released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

By the time the train reached the next stop, a feeling that vaguely resembled calm had settled over him. He was already standing when the doors slid open. Air surged inside, bringing with it the unmistakable aroma of garbage and moldering buildings. The oddly familiar smell rocked him back a beat. He recovered before anyone noticed, squared his shoulders, and stepped out onto the platform.

The train soldiered on. Darius didn't move until the rest of the platform had emptied. Another gust of air carried with it a blast of dust from a construction site across the street. Darius blinked the grit out of his eyes. On the other side of the intersection, a bus screeched to a halt in front of a crowded stop.

Darius took a deep breath. "Relax, blood," he murmured under his breath. "Ain't nothing but a thing."

He checked the traffic, then cut across the intersection. The crowd around the bus stop had already vanished, and the brakes hissed as the bus prepared to leave. Darius scooted onboard just as the doors swung shut.

The driver didn't look at him when he paid the fare. Neither did anyone else as he strode down the aisle. Each face he passed was a different shade of black. Darius found an empty bench near the back, and slid in all the way to the window. Some of the tension leaked from his shoulders. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to be invisible. How nice it could be.

The bus jerked forward, and Darius relaxed a little more. The jouncing ride was pleasantly familiar. He could almost see a smaller version of himself on the opposite bench, decked out in his St. Michael's uniform, his overstuffed backpack shoved into the small space at his feet.

The bus hit a particularly deep pothole, and the memory evaporated. Darius shook himself, turned and stared out the window.

Outside, the street began to change. Interspersed between the houses and six-plexes were two- and three-story condominiums, almost painfully fresh-faced compared to their older neighbors. The bus continued a few more blocks. Gradually, the houses gave way to more condos. The gutters grew cleaner. Flowers cascaded from balcony gardens.

Soon, the original neighborhood faded away altogether. Darius fought the urge to rub his eyes. Was he still in the right place? Smooth, even sidewalks, verdant landscaping; this looked nothing like the Hunters Point he'd left behind. It was as though some intrepid urban planner had carved out a slice of suburbia and wedged it into the heart of the hood.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

The bus wound up the hill, past cul-de-sacs packed with cheerful, color-coordinated homes and neatly trimmed lawns. The carefully plotted neighborhoods stretched almost to the edge of the Bay. Beyond them, the water glittered a deep, dusky blue.

Darius took it all in as the bus traveled around the other side of the hill. The street ended abruptly in a stand of rangy bay trees. The bus turned, and the bright, clean houses disappeared from sight. The grass vanished. Up ahead, the first of the forties-era public housing came into view.

Finally, something he recognized.

The old projects looked just like he remembered. There were a few more boarded-up windows since he'd last been back, but the faded paint, the scraggly trees and the overgrown weeds were still the same. Kids still chased each other down the ragged sidewalks and along the narrow footpaths between the buildings. Older people still smoked in the doorways.

The view from this side of the hill hadn't changed, either. From this angle, the Bay was a pale, dingy gray. The old shipyard stretched along the shoreline like an abandoned film set. Darius' lips twitched. He could still remember riding his bike down there, back before anyone knew or cared what a toxic dump the place was.

Vast swaths of it were gone now. Recently demolished, by the looks of it; neat grafts of raw dirt left behind. A few tired warehouses remained, perched resolutely on the edges of the flooded out drydocks.

The bus motored past the point where he needed to get off. It finally rattled to a stop further up the hill. Darius fidgeted. What were the odds he'd be able to walk through his old neighborhood without anyone recognizing him?

Not good.

The doors swung open, and he joined the throng of people getting off. They were mostly kids, all ages, most of them toting backpacks. School must have just let out; it was around that time. Almost immediately, they branched off into groups, everyone talking and laughing.

Swelling voices signaled the beginning stages of a fight. Darius skirted around the two parties in question. Neither looked to be out of middle school. He ignored the rapidly cresting energy in the air, and began to retrace the last few blocks the bus had gone.

The view from ground-level brought back a fresh surge of memories. Most were of little things he'd tried to forget. Trudging up the uneven sidewalks to the bus stop. Hanging on the rusted metal railings around the buildings. Running through the cuts to avoid the cops. Darius kept his eyes forward. His jaw flexed.

Home, sweet home.

Either no one noticed his presence, or no one cared. Either option suited him. Darius glanced up at the sky, and lengthened his stride. Sometime during the last few hours, the sun had sunk worryingly close to the horizon. At this rate, he'd have to hurry to make it back to the light rail station before the last train of the night.

He soon reached Northridge and Harbor. All that remained now was to cut down through the projects, and he'd be home free. Darius started across the intersection, towards a set of concrete stairs poured into the side of the dusty hill.

"Hey, young blood!"

Darius' gut gave a lurch. He took a deep breath and quickened his pace. Maybe whoever it was wasn't talking to him.

"Yo, Darius! That you, boy?"

Darius' heart sank. So much for going unnoticed. He turned, mentally girding himself for the confrontation he knew was coming.

Instead, he was met with a familiar—if grizzled—face. Darius' jaw dropped. "I'll be damned." He clapped the offered hand, and returned the other man's grin. "Jimbo? I don't believe this. How you been, black man?"

Except for a few more gray hairs, Jim Gardner looked the same as when Darius was a kid. His hooded eyes twinkled in his dark face. "Same as I ever been. Blessed. Too blessed to be stressed." He looked Darius up and down. "You sure are something to see. Whatever you been doing, it looks good on you."

Darius ducked his head. He didn't know why the words meant so much. Maybe it was because the old man had watched him grow up, had seen the cesspit he'd had to claw his way out of. Knew firsthand just what that had required. Whatever the reason, they filled something in his chest he hadn't realized was empty.

He didn't allow himself to dwell on it. "How are the neighbors?"

Jim's face sagged. "Miss Tess passed on about five years back. Leukemia. Lost Miss Denise to breast cancer, Christmas before last." He shrugged. "You know how it is 'round here."

Darius' stomach soured. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." He tried to keep his expression light, but he could feel it slipping. He quickly changed the subject. "And you and Claudine? You two all right?"

Jim brightened a little. "Sure, we're fine. Claudine just got a new job, some Japanese fusion place on Third. She'll be sorry she missed you." He gave Darius a careful look. "You planning on seeing your auntie?"

"No." Darius' stomach churned. "I don't think she would want that."

Disapproval darkened Jim's face. Darius didn't flinch. It wasn't directed at him. Sure enough, the old man humphed. "You're probably right." He hesitated. "Something else you should know. Dante's running with the West Point crew now."

Darius stilled. A heavy feeling settled deep in his bones. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Started a few years back." Jim studied him. "Figured it better you find out from someone you know."

"Thanks." Darius shifted. Now he really wanted to go home. His little studio in SOMA had never felt so far away. He took a deep breath. "Well, I should get on. I've got a thing."

Jim extended a hand, and they shook again. He found Darius' eyes. "You be sure to keep your head down." His voice quieted. "The hood's gotten harder since you left. Nowadays, people go in, but they don't always come back out."

† † †

Jim's words were still echoing in his head when Darius arrived at his destination.

Aunt J's Conjure House looked the same as it always had. The old stick Victorian was painted a watery aqua green, the white trim weathered and faded. It sat perched about halfway up the bluff that bordered the street. A chipped white fence separated the terraced yard from the sidewalk. Twin sets of aged brick steps led up to the front porch.

Darius took them two at a time. Only when he found himself standing on the porch, staring at the freshly-painted red door, did he finally hesitate. He had never expected to end up back here. He'd given no notice when he left, had never called once he'd gone. What if J turned him away? What if he'd made this whole trip for nothing?

If he turned back now, he'd never know. Darius raised a fist and rapped on the door. The sound echoed on the other side.

A couple minutes went by. Then footsteps approached. Darius pulled his shoulders back.

The door opened on a short, russet-skinned woman in a white shirt and jeans. Her wiry black hair was smoothed into a knot at the top of her head. There was more gray in it than he remembered. Her eyes, however, were as sharp as ever. They took him in, stopped on his face.

Her lips parted. "Darius?"

Darius inclined his head stiffly. "Hey, J."

She didn't speak, just stared at him. Minutes dragged by. Darius waited. His insides twisted, untwisted, twisted again.

The woman's lips pulled into a slow smile. "Well, if it isn't the prodigal son." Joy finally washed over her face. She opened her arms. "Get over here, boy, and give me a hug."

Darius swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and did as ordered. J hugged him tight, seemingly oblivious to the foot and a half of height he had on her. She gave one last squeeze and stepped back, hands still clutching his arms. "Darius deCompostela. Didn't think I'd be seeing you again." She released him and shuffled back. "Come on inside."

Darius obediently stepped into the front hallway, quickly took up position in front of the staircase against the wall. J cast a quick glance down the street, then shut the door behind him. In smooth sequence, she slid home three locks and a deadbolt.

The door secured, she turned and looked him up and down again. Her eyes were suspiciously bright. She crossed her arms and rocked back on her heels. "You look so good."

The pride on her face was like coming home. Something expanded in his chest. "You too."

Lord, he'd missed her. He hadn't even realized how much. It was all he could do not to walk over, bend down and rest his head on her shoulder. He had a feeling she wouldn't mind if he did.

Instead, he jammed his hands in his pockets. "Sorry to drop in like this."

She rolled her eyes. "Please. My door was open when you were a boy, and it's open now. Doesn't matter how big you've grown." She started towards the living room. "Come sit down, and you can tell me what's going on. Got a feeling you didn't come out here for a social call."

Darius winced. "No. I'm sorry, but I—"

A sharp knock on the door cut him off. J's eyes widened. "Anyone know you're here?"

Darius shook his head. "No one who would come looking. Ran into Jim Gardener on the way in, but he wouldn't have told anybody."

J jerked her chin towards the living room. "In there, and keep out of sight. I'll see who it is."

She waited while Darius ducked out of view of the door. From his spot against the living room wall, he could hear her cross the hall, unfasten the locks. The deadbolt clicked, then the door swung open. There was a long silence.

J spoke first. She sounded stunned. "Can I...help you?"

Darius held his breath.

The mystery visitor answered. "Um, yeah. I'm here with Darius deCompostela?"

The breath whooshed out. Darius stalked back into the hallway. J's head jerked towards him. Darius ignored her, yanked the door the rest of the way open, and glowered out at the leather-and-denim-clad figure on the porch.

"Georgia? What the high fucking hell do you think you're doing here?"

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

#

Not quite the reaction she'd been hoping for.

Georgia swallowed hard. Darius looked as furious as she'd ever seen him. Before she could think of something to say, he brushed past the woman who had answered the door and joined her on the porch. He seized her hand, at the same time called over his shoulder, "Right back, J."

J's voice echoed behind them. "I'll make us up some snacks..."

Georgia tried to look back, but Darius was already propelling her down the front steps. The door clicked shut. He didn't acknowledge it, towed her through a rangy herb garden and around the side of the house. Tall bay trees acted as a wall between it and the derelict buildings further up the hill.

Georgia's pulse ratcheted steadily higher. "Where are we going?"

He didn't answer. The instant they were out of sight of the street, he spun her around to face him. "I asked you a question. What are you doing here?"

The fury in his voice had her shrinking before she could stop herself. Georgia recovered, squared her shoulders and met his eyes. "What do you think? I'm here to watch your back."

The look on his face would have been hilarious if it wasn't so insulting. "You think you're going to watch my back?"

Georgia braced herself for the lecture that was coming. Darius stared down at her. Then his lips twitched. His broad shoulders started to shake. Georgia's jaw dropped.

He was laughing at her.

She crossed her arms and glowered up at him. "You think this is funny?"

He shook his head and laughed harder. The sound echoed off the house, rang through the bay trees behind them. Georgia glanced around. At this rate, the entire neighborhood was going to hear. "Darius," she hissed. "God damn it, keep your voice down!"

Darius planted his hands on his knees and gulped for air. He looked up at her through watery eyes. "How did you even know where to find me?"

Georgia coughed. Heat suffused her face. "I may have, ah, followed you after I dropped you off." She paused. "And then, you know, cornered Kristof after you left that bar."

Darius' face looked like it was about to crack. "You cornered Kristof?"

"Yeah. He, um, gave me this address." Georgia cleared her throat. "I googled the directions."

"You _googled_ this place?" A muscle ticked just above his eye. "What did you type in, exactly? 'The Hood'?" A snort escaped him. He doubled over again and roared with laughter.

Georgia shifted. Something about all this felt off. There was a desperate note in his voice, a manic tinge she didn't like one bit. What if he'd snapped? What if instead of helping, her coming here had pushed him over the edge? She peered into his face. "Darius?"

"You shouldn't be here." Sure enough, the laughter was already morphing into something else. This time when he looked at her, his eyes were haunted. "I mean it. Hell, _I_ shouldn't be here. Do you have any idea..." He trailed off, looked down and leaned heavily against his knees.

Georgia swallowed hard. "No. I don't." She waited until he looked at her again. "Kristof didn't tell me why you came here, but I got the impression it was as a last resort." She licked her lips. "We're running out of options, aren't we?"

Darius straightened. His face hardened. "Yes."

Georgia's throat felt tight. "Look, I've heard the stories about this place, okay? I don't know what you think you'll find here, but whatever it is, I want to help."

"Help with what?" Darius shook his head. "I'm flying blind here, girl." He blew out a breath. "I think it's time we started hoping for a miracle."

"I believe in magic, not miracles." Georgia took a cautious step forward. "Let me in, D. Let me help. You wouldn't be caught up in all this if it wasn't for me."

Darius stepped back. His expression was unreadable. "You don't understand."

"You're right." She took another step forward. "I don't. So help me."

She already had her face tilted to meet him when he kissed her. The feel of his lips was nothing short of a relief. Georgia reached up and cupped his face, gloried in the intricate dance of muscle and tendon just under his skin. This kiss was different. There was no hesitation, no struggle. He needed her. She needed him.

It was almost simple.

His thumb gently pressed her chin. Obediently, she opened her mouth, gasped as his tongue delved in for a taste. Her senses kicked into overdrive. She touched his tongue with hers. He moaned.

The sound touched off something inside her. They weren't close enough. Why weren't they close enough? Georgia pressed closer. She was dimly aware of Darius' hands marking every part of her he could reach: her back, her hips. They curved over her ass, held her to him as he walked them both backwards.

She came up short against the house. Georgia broke the kiss on a gasp. She closed a frantic hand around the back of his neck. He was going to hit the brakes. Apologize. Retreat to a safe distance until the fire inside her burned itself out.

It took her a moment to register he wasn't going anywhere.

His lips grazed her ear, found the soft spot just underneath it. Georgia shivered. The tension in her chest shifted lower. Darius trailed his lips down her neck. Fire sparked everywhere they touched. Georgia slid her hand up to his head and cradled him close.

The feel of fingers against her belly made her jump. Darius stopped immediately, started to pull back. Georgia grabbed his wrist. He met her eyes, and she flicked her tongue over her lips. "Don't."

His gaze locked on her mouth. A growl rumbled in his chest, and he kissed her again.

At the same time, he slid his fingertips under the hem of her shirt. Georgia's breath caught. Darius skimmed up her belly, higher. He palmed her breast, and the air flooded from her lungs. She arched into him, a silent plea. Somehow he heard it, slipped aside the thin fabric of her bra and caught her nipple between two fingers. He gave it an experimental roll.

A strangled cry snaked up her throat and disappeared into his mouth. Darius did it again. Georgia whimpered. Heat pulsed between her legs. She pressed them together, a desperate bid for relief. The trembling inside her only intensified.

Somehow, Darius knew that, too. He shifted forward and parted her legs with one muscular thigh. Then he rolled her nipple again. Georgia ground against him, hissed. His chuckle reverberated against her lips. He repeated the motion. Georgia groaned out loud.

He broke off the kiss, and shifted his erotic torture into higher gear. Georgia could feel him watching her as his long, strong fingers teased her. She rocked shamelessly against his leg, too caught up in the firestorm of sensation to be self-conscious.

Deep inside her, a different type of storm was building. Georgia gasped. She couldn't remember the last time her body had felt this awake. This _alive_. She leaned into Darius' touch. His approving hum echoed in her head.

The reality of the situation suddenly slammed into her. She was in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the entire city, in the backyard of a complete stranger. Darius deCompostela had his hand up her shirt. And she was riding his leg towards what was promising to be the orgasm of a lifetime.

Somehow, she managed to tear her lips away from his. "Darius..."

He hooked a finger over the neckline of her tank top and pulled down. Georgia had a brief second to register cool air against her naked breast, then his mouth replaced his hand. His hot tongue lashed her skin.

Sharp, blinding pleasure promptly shorted out what few synapses were still firing in her brain. Georgia's knees buckled. Darius caught her. He took over where she'd left off, grinding between her legs until the earth melted out from under her feet. Until she couldn't think, couldn't speak. Until all she could do was lean into him and relearn how to breathe.

Slowly, the world settled back into place. Darius' leather jacket was cool and foreign against her cheek. Georgia sighed. She could feel him chuckle, then he shifted until she was standing on her own two legs again. She braced herself for him to back away.

His arms closed around her. His chin came to rest on top of her head. Georgia released a breath. lips curved. She closed her eyes.

Something unmistakably hard jabbed her stomach. Georgia's mouth went dry. She opened her eyes again. "Ah. Darius."

"Don't." His voice was quiet, but the warning was unmistakable.

Impossibly, a slow trickle of heat started to pool inside her again. It made her bold. Georgia rubbed against him. "Darius." She started to reach for his fly.

Darius caught her wrist. Georgia looked up at him. His face was drawn tight. She blew out a frustrated breath. "I don't get it. Why won't you let me touch you?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Because if you do, I won't want you to stop."

Georgia's pulse leaped. She licked her lips. "Then I won't." She tried to reach for him again.

His hand kept her wrist where it was. "No."

Something in her chest shriveled up. "Ah." She tugged at her wrist. He gave her a wary look, but released her. She let her hand drop to her side. "I get it."

Darius blinked. "You do?"

All too well. Georgia slid out from between him and the house, and put two steps between them. "Yeah. I do." Her chest constricted. "Probably should have seen it sooner."

His eyes narrowed. "Just what is it you get, exactly?"

Georgia shrugged. "I'm a witch, right? A black witch. You said it yourself: I'm on everyone's shit list who has a shit list. Not a good person to get involved with if you're trying to stay on the right side of the demimonde."

Darius took a step towards her. "Georgia—"

"Look, you don't want this." Georgia swallowed hard. "It's fine. I—"

"Is that really what you think?" He took another step, effectively closing the distance between them. "That I don't want you?"

He splayed a hand over the small of her back and pulled her flush to his pelvis. His cock strained against her belly. Georgia's insides went soft.

Darius leaned down until their lips nearly touched. "I fucking want you, Georgia Clare. I've wanted you for the last week. Hell, longer. Maybe I've wanted you since you walked into my office."

Georgia stared at him, mute.

He smoothed a hand over his head. "But we're not doing this now. Not in a goddamn yard, where just anyone might see." His eyes grew hot. His voice dropped. "When I fuck you, it's going to be for us: you and me. No one else. And I plan on taking a good long time."

Georgia stared up at him. She wasn't sure she remembered how to speak.

Darius held her gaze for a moment, then leaned down and brushed her lips with his. He pulled back before it could turn into a kiss, and tugged her towards the house. "Come on. We'd better get back inside."

† † †

They walked in to find J setting a plate of cookies on the coffee table in the living room.

She looked up when the door opened. A mischievous grin lit her face. "There you two are. And here I was settling in for the long wait." She nodded to the plate. "Snickerdoodle?"

Georgia glanced from her to Darius. For the first time since she'd known him, he had a sheepish expression on his face. He started into the living room without looking at her. "Still homemade?"

J gave him a good-natured scowl. "What do you think?"

Georgia trailed behind him. There was a definite connection between them, but she couldn't lay a finger on what it was. It was significantly more than just friendly, but not quite familial. Distant relative, maybe?

She didn't get a chance to ask. J waved them towards the comfortably threadbare couch. Once they were both seated, she planted herself in an easy chair on the opposite side of the coffee table. She waited until they each had a cookie in hand before speaking. "So. What say you two tell me what brought you down."

Georgia glanced at Darius. "It's kind of a long story."

J settled in. "Good thing I've got time." Her gaze turned to Darius. "Talk to me."

He did. J listened with rapt attention as he laid out everything from the murders to the witching guild's reaction to Father Gregory's theory. To Georgia's surprise, the entire telling took him only a few minutes. Maybe it wasn't such a long story, after all.

By the time he was finished, deep lines creased J's forehead. "Brimstone, you say?"

Darius nodded. "Makes sense, if it really is a demon we're dealing with."

J pursed her lips. "Maybe. But I'm not so sure."

"Father Gregory—"

J humphed. "You ever heard the expression 'when all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail'?" She rubbed her knees. "Show a Catholic something they don't understand, and they instantly assume it's a demon."

Georgia smirked, and glanced at Darius.

His face was hard. "Careful. I may not be in the faith anymore, but that doesn't mean you can just—"

"I wasn't trying to." J spoke carefully, her bright black eyes locked on his face. "Maybe it's slipped your mind, but The Church and I hold many of the same beliefs. That said, I'm not going to candy-coat the facts, either. The Catholic Church may deal with spiritual things, but they're still a mundane institution."

Darius opened his mouth.

J held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong. They do the best they can with what they have, with what they know." She shrugged. "But fact is, they're limited. Something pops up that goes against their view of the world, they don't have the vocabulary to name it." Her eyes slid to Georgia. "I don't need to tell you how important the right name can be."

Darius turned to look at her too. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Magic, D." Georgia kept her eyes on J. "Invocation, evocation, banishment. Hell, even basic prayer. All spellwork starts with being able to name what you need, who you're summoning, what you're trying to keep away." She finally looked over at him. "Use the wrong name, and the spell is worthless."

J jumped in. "Witchcraft 101, Darius. She is a witch, isn't she?"

Darius nodded. He studied her a moment longer, then turned back to J. "So, do you know its name?"

"Not for sure, but I know a way to find out." She nodded at his side. "You said it marked you?"

Darius grimaced. "Yeah."

J sat a little straighter. "Come here."

Darius stood, sidestepped the coffee table and crossed over to the older woman. J caught Georgia's eye briefly, then focused back on him. "I won't lie to you. This may hurt a little."

He nodded stiffly. "What do you need me to do?"

"I'll need direct contact with the affected area." J started removing the rings from one hand. "Just lift your shirt."

Darius nodded again, waited while J finished removing her rings. She leaned forward and deposited them on the coffee table. Georgia watched her. "What are you going to do?"

J settled back in her chair. "If it was an energy wound, I'll be able to read it. Someone's done a good job on it—you, I'm guessing—but a wound like this never quite goes away." She started rubbing her hands together. "See, everything in the universe has its own unique energy. Like a signature. You know what to look for, you can tell a thing by what it leaves behind."

Georgia raised her eyebrows. She'd heard of people who could decode energy, but in all her life, she'd never actually met one. "And you know what to look for?"

"Course I do." J rubbed her hands faster.

Georgia stared. She realized what the woman was doing now. This was a form of magic she'd never seen before. Basic. Primal, even. "You work with energy, don't you? Like Darius?"

A smile tugged at J's wrinkled lips. "Who you think taught him?"

Georgia shut her mouth, and J's movements quickened. Soon her hands were nothing but a blur. She closed her eyes. "Unto thee, O Lord, do I lift up my soul."

Her voice was strong, lyrical. Georgia fought back a shiver. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end.

"O my God, I trust in thee: let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me."

Georgia wracked her brain for where she'd heard those words before. They were from a Psalm; she could tell that much. But on J's lips, they became something else entirely. Something even more powerful.

J's voice deepened. "Lead me in thy truth, and teach me: for thou art the God of my salvation..."

Georgia shivered again. This time, she couldn't contain it. This was old magic, backed up by time and tradition, hardship and blood. She could feel the echoes of it deep inside her. Soul-deep.

"The meek will he guide in judgment: and the meek will he teach his way."

Without warning, J reached up and placed her hand on Darius' side. He sucked in a breath. She ignored him. "Mine eyes are ever toward the Lord; for he shall pluck my feet out of the net. Turn thee unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and afflicted."

Darius seemed to be struggling to remain still. A tic started in his jaw. Georgia rose to her feet and tiptoed over to him. She laid a hand on his arm. He didn't look at her, but the tic stopped.

J continued without stopping, but her voice sounded strained. "O keep my soul, and deliver me: let me not be ashamed; for I put my trust in thee."

Darius' breathing sounded ragged. His hands fisted at his sides. Georgia curved her fingers around his arm.

J's voice had grown strangely thin, but she didn't stop. "Let integrity and uprightness preserve me; for I wait on thee."

Darius panted. Sweat glistened on his head. Georgia tightened her grip and pressed close. He shook. So did she.

"Redeem Israel, O God, out of all his troubles." J rasped out the final word. "Amen."

A jolt of what felt like pure electricity slammed through them. Georgia gasped, and dropped Darius' arm. He immediately sank to his knees, face ashen. J yanked her hand away and collapsed into the back of the chair. Sweat streaked her forehead.

For several minutes, the only sound was the wheezing of her breath. Finally, Georgia hooked a hand under Darius' arm. "Come on, D. Let's get you back to the couch."

Somehow, she got him to his feet. She staggered a little under his weight before he found his own footing. Still, he leaned heavily on her shoulder as she helped him back to the sofa.

J watched while they resettled, face slack, a dazed look in her eyes. Darius leaned forward with a wince and rested his forearms on his thighs. "Tell me you got something."

J's head bobbed weakly. "I got something, all right. But it can't..." She swallowed hard. "I mean, I've only ever heard of them in stories. Legends. They're not real."

Georgia glanced at Darius, then turned back to J. "What's not real?"

J took a deep breath, and visibly pulled herself together. She looked from one of them to the other, her forehead furrowed. "Hellhounds."

# CHAPTER TWENTY

#

"Let me get this straight. You're saying I've got a hellhound on my trail?"

Georgia couldn't make up her mind whether to laugh or cry. The idea was ludicrous, of course—something straight out of a Robert Johnson song—but J's face was deadly serious.

"That's exactly what I'm saying, honey." The older woman reached out a shaky hand and scooped her rings off the coffee table. One by one, she began sliding them back into place.

Georgia turned to Darius. His face reflected everything she was feeling. He met her eyes, and something beyond words passed between them. Georgia let out the breath she'd forgotten she was holding. The knot in her chest loosened.

Darius looked at J. "What can you tell us?"

J spun her last ring around her little finger. "Nothing solid. I mean, like I said, there are stories. But that's all I thought they were." Her eyes grew dark. "When you said you needed help, I thought you meant you'd been crossed. Maybe needed a nice mojo made up. This..." She shook her head. "This is trouble like I've never seen."

Darius' jaw flexed. "Just give us what you've got."

J nodded. "Well, the physical signs you described match to the legends to a tee. Black as coal. Smell like burning brimstone. Razor sharp teeth. Super strength and speed." She looked from one of them to the other. "What color were its eyes?"

Georgia had to swallow hard before she could answer. "Yellow."

"Yellow," J repeated. A strange look crossed her face. "Depending on the story, the eyes can be either yellow or deep, glowing red. I wonder..."

Georgia arched an eyebrow.

J shook herself. "Anyhow, according to most stories, hellhounds can appear, disappear, change size at will. Traditionally, they've been associated with electrical storms, crossroads, places of execution, cemeteries..."

"Charming," Georgia muttered.

J's eyes locked on her face. "There is one thing. Might mean something to you, Ms. Clare. Supposedly, hellhounds were created by the Goddess of the Dark Moon."

Georgia stilled. "What?"

Darius straightened. "What?" His eyes darted back and forth between them. "What am I missing?"

Georgia's mouth suddenly felt parched. She moistened her lips. "The Goddess of the Dark Moon is another name for Hecate. She's the goddess of witches, D." A horrifying thought occurred to her. "Oh my god, what if this really is my fault? What if I'm—" She stopped, squeezed her eyes shut.

What if I'm being punished?

When she opened her eyes again, both Darius and J were staring at her. Darius nudged her knee with his. "Hey." He waited until she looked at him. "This isn't your fault. Whatever's going on, we're going to figure it out." His voice lowered. "Together."

Georgia forgot to breathe. The expression on his face was so sincere, so certain. Her heart squeezed painfully. What she wouldn't give to believe what he was saying. She didn't, of course. Couldn't. But still...

J cleared her throat. Georgia's cheeks heated. She shelved her thoughts and faced forward. "Sorry."

J nodded, and started spinning her ring again. "There's more, of course. Other stories. Never put much stock in them, but now...well. Seems to me we should consider everything."

Georgia took a deep, fortifying breath. "Go on."

"There are myths. Rumors, you understand?" J's mouth worked. "According to some people, it's not just all chaos and confusion Down Below. There's a chain of command. A pecking order."

Georgia blinked. "A hierarchy? In Hell?"

J looked uncomfortable. She nodded. "Those same people have described hellhounds, too. Their version is, well, a little different from the accepted lore." She shifted in her chair. "Supposedly, there are different classes. Divisions. Each division has a different role."

"Different role." Darius shook his head. "You mean these things have jobs?"

"That's the story." J spun her ring a little faster. "Ain't good to talk too much about infernal affairs if you can avoid it. Tends to make certain things stand up and pay attention." She glanced out the window behind her, gave the curtain a tweak before turning back around. "But if this thing has yellow eyes like you said, I may have an idea what it is."

Georgia leaned forward. "Yes?"

J clasped her hands in her lap. "I think you may have found yourself a Cerberus."

Darius furrowed his brow. "Cerberus. As in Hades's dog?"

"Not _The_ Cerberus. _A_ Cerberus. It's one of those divisions I told you about. Let me see if I remember this right." J closed her eyes and scrunched up her nose. "They never take human form. Were created by the Goddess to serve as watchdogs of Hell." She opened her eyes again. "Answer only to Her."

Darius snorted. "You really believe all that?"

"Maybe." J sat back. "In any case, I've heard enough stories about 'watchdogs of Hell' I'm not about to just blow it off." She spread her hands. "You already mentioned Cerberus. That's a Roman version of the Greek dog Kerberos. There's also Garmr, dog of the Norse goddess of the underworld. The two dogs of Yama, the Vedic god of death—"

Darius held up a hand. "I get it. The stories line up."

"Like dominoes." J pursed her lips. "One thing does bother me. Cerberus' are supposed to be confined to the netherworld. They never come into the world of the living. Which means..."

Georgia swallowed hard. "Someone brought it here."

"Most likely by force." J shook her head. "We're not talking your garden-variety demon invocation, either. These creatures are bound up in the fabric of Hell. It wouldn't be easy to rip them loose."

Georgia closed her eyes. A chill slithered down her spine. "So someone really is after me."

"Looks that way, honey."

Georgia opened her eyes. "In that case, I should leave. I'm probably putting you in danger just by being here." She looked from J to Darius. "This entire case has been a shit-shoot from day one. Maybe it's time you and I called it a day."

"Like hell." Darius' eyes flashed. "This doesn't change anything."

"This changes everything!" Georgia hesitated, then rested a hand on top of his. "Come on, D. A hellhound? I don't know if you've heard the stories, but I have. You need to get as far away from me as you can, and you need to stay there."

Darius' face darkened. He opened his mouth.

J cut in before he could speak. "Nobody's going anywhere. At least, not tonight. I have a spare room upstairs. You two can stay over, head out in the morning."

Georgia started to shake her head. "Look, thank you, but I—"

J locked eyes with her. "This house is protected by strong magic. You'll be safe." She stood with a grunt. "Besides, I put together a nice lasagna just before you showed up. It should be about ready. Had a feeling company might be coming."

Georgia blinked. "What kind of feeling?"

J winked. Then she started across the room. "Kitchen's this way. I'll show you where you can wash up."

† † †

The lasagna was delicious. At least, he assumed it was, from the way Georgia was scarfing it down. Darius barely tasted it.

The three of them had somehow squeezed around the small table in the kitchen. The place hadn't changed at all. Same cheery sunflower-print wallpaper, same dented sink, same stained linoleum floors. He traced a groove in the table beside his plate; a testament to the countless kids who had written papers and worked out math problems here.

Home. At least, the closest thing to one he could remember.

Darius picked up his fork and stabbed halfheartedly at the lasagna. Was it just him, or did the street outside sound too quiet? Not that this area usually got particularly loud. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone—or something—was out there. The back of his neck prickled. Darius shook himself.

J said something. Georgia laughed. Darius looked over at her. Jesus, was she actually here? He still couldn't quite believe it. "What's so funny?"

J grinned. "I was just telling her about all the hell you and Dante used to get up to. Used to think you boys were feral, the way you tore around here." Mock censure filled her face. "You know, I never did get that scorch mark out of the bathtub."

Darius snorted. "I told you, the cat was his idea."

"I bet it was." J shook her head, but her eyes twinkled. "Never saw that cat again, poor creature."

Georgia stared at him, her face torn between amusement and horror. Darius cracked a smile in spite of himself and shoveled a forkful of lasagna into his mouth.

Georgia shook her head and turned back to J. "So. How did you and Darius meet?"

Darius' food stuck in his throat.

J spared him a brief glance, then shrugged lightly. "Lot of the neighborhood kids end up here some time or another. Their folks usually work long hours, sometimes aren't around much. Others don't have a whole lot of interest in being parents, you want the truth. Kids know I'm always here, know they can show up anytime and get a hot meal."

Georgia's lips twitched. "Sounds like you're the neighborhood mom."

J smiled and offered her another helping of lasagna. "You might say."

Georgia held out her plate. "So, was Darius here much?"

J hesitated. Darius caught her eye briefly, then speared a piece of noodle with his fork. He gave a single, sharp nod. "Yes."

Georgia took one look at him, and didn't say another word. Neither did J. They finished the meal in silence.

Darius was scraping up the last of the lasagna from his plate when a knock sounded on the front door. He froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. Beside him, Georgia stopped chewing.

J looked at them. "You're not expecting anyone else, are you?"

Darius shook his head. "No one."

She set her fork down and stood, eyebrows knotted. "In that case, give me a minute." She hurried through the narrow doorway and disappeared down the hall.

Darius didn't move. Georgia didn't, either. She looked at him, her eyes wide. Guilt and uneasiness tightened into a knot at the base of his throat. It was his fault she was here. She'd wanted to have his back, god damn it, and now...

There was a small commotion from the front hallway; what sounded like the door banging shut, then J's voice, oddly high-pitched. "I told you, there's no one here. Wait! You can't go back—"

Heavy footsteps slammed down the hallway. Darius leaped to his feet, tucked Georgia behind him when she did the same. A second later, a man burst into the kitchen. Darius forgot to breathe.

The man was taller than he remembered, and had tattoos where he hadn't before. It didn't matter. Darius recognized him instantly.

The man stopped dead when he saw him. A kaleidoscope of emotions flickered over his face. "So it's true. You're back." His eyes shifted to Georgia, lingered a little too long. "Who's she?"

Darius shifted in front of her. Every muscle in his body tensed. "Outside."

He ignored the look Georgia gave him and herded the other man out through the mudroom. He didn't stop until they were standing in the weeds around the back door. Carefully, he closed it behind them, took a moment for his racing heart to steady.

At last, he turned. "Dante. Wasn't expecting to see you here."

He tried to reconcile the man in front of him with the gangly, gap-toothed kid he remembered. No use. That kid was now as tall as he was. Shaved head. Pierced ears. His loose white t-shirt made his already black skin look even darker.

"I bet you weren't." Dante's expression was indecipherable. "Heard you were back. Didn't guess you'd come find me, so I figured I'd come find you."

"You figured that, did you?" Darius crossed his arms. There was a time when he would have embraced this man without a second thought, invited him in to dinner, stayed up late to catch up and reminisce. A part of him stilled ached to do just that.

But things were different now. He had a feeling they both knew it.

Dante's eyes didn't leave his face. "Were you going to see Momma?"

Darius sighed heavily. "She's your momma. Not mine." He shifted until he had a clear view of the street. "Anyway, I think we both know how it would go down."

Dante's jaw clenched. He searched Darius' face. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something. Then his mouth relaxed. The same war of emotions Darius had witnessed in the kitchen played over his face.

"Come on, what's it been, ten years? Fifteen? Can't we just...?" He trailed off. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "It's good to see you, brother."

_You too_. The words lodged somewhere inside him. Darius took a deep breath. "So. Is it true?" The question came out harsher than he'd meant it. "You really banging with the Westmob now?"

Dante's eyes grew hard. "And there it is."

Just like old times. Darius stiffened. "Something you want to say?"

Dante's lips thinned. "Momma was right. You never did understand family."

Something low and dangerous started to build in his chest. Darius fought to keep his voice under control. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Did you ever think about us after you left? Even once?" Dante started to pace. "See, I gotta ask, bein' as you never fucking called. Didn't tell me you was leaving. Didn't say goodbye." He stopped and looked Darius in the eyes. " _Me_ , D. I get why you never said nothing to Momma, but you could have said something to _me_. Closest thing to a father I ever had, and you just fucking vanished."

Darius didn't answer. He wasn't sure he knew how.

Dante started to pace again. "I got a kid, you know. Not that you probably care. A boy." His face faltered. "Looks just like me."

Darius' throat tightened. He let his arms drop to his sides. "How old?"

Dante stopped mid-stride, gave him a befuddled look. Then he squared his shoulders. "Four."

His chest felt like it was burning. Darius forced down the acid rising in his throat. "And you really want to raise him around a gang?"

Dante stared at him. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. It's not a gang. It's a family." His mouth twisted. "Had to find one somewhere."

The words landed like a kick to the gut. Darius drew himself a little straighter. "Last I checked, family didn't do things might get each other killed."

Dante shrugged. "All that, it's just thug shit." With that, his face shuttered. He tossed his chin. "Ain't nothing I can't handle, blood."

Darius narrowed his eyes, but if it was an act, Dante had polished it to perfection. Darius locked down the ache in his chest, and crossed his arms again. "If you got something to say, say it. Otherwise, you'd better get on home."

Dante didn't flinch. "Cool by me, _brother_. Just came to find out if you was back for good."

Darius snorted. "Find out for who? Your 'family'?"

Dante didn't answer.

"Fine. I'm leaving in the morning. That what you wanted to hear?" Darius' lip curled. "You tell your family they got nothing to worry about. This time, I won't be coming back."

Something flashed in Dante's eyes, something Darius almost recognized. He scarcely had a chance to notice before it vanished again. Dante turned without a word, and swaggered off into the yard.

Darius didn't move until he disappeared around the front of the house.

† † †

"Shouldn't we go check on him?"

Georgia craned her neck to see out the small kitchen window, but it was no use. Outside, the darkness hid both Darius and Dante from view.

J sighed. "Give them a minute, honey. Those two have some things need to be said."

Georgia sank back in her chair, and picked at the last few bites of lasagna on her plate. She glanced up. "Can I ask you something?"

J raised her eyebrows.

Georgia took it as permission. "You're an energy worker, like Darius. You must have seen what he went through, you know, as a kid with the sight." She took a deep breath. "When I first met him, he didn't know anything about how to manage it. He didn't even know what shielding was. Didn't you ever try to...?" She trailed off.

"To what? Train him? Teach him to protect himself?" J stared down at her hands. "Course I did. And if I'd gotten to him before that priest of his, maybe he'd have listened to me."

Georgia paused. "You mean Father Gregory?"

"Father Gregory." J's lip curled. "Everyone around here acted like he was Jesus H. Christ, just because he and his precious church showed up to a couple community cookouts. I saw what he was selling from the get-go. Then he took an interest in Darius..."

Georgia didn't speak.

J shook her head. "I tried to tell his auntie not to let him go to that school, but she wouldn't have any of it. She was scared, and Father Gregory and the others gave her something to hold onto. Told her they could 'fix' him, whatever that means."

Georgia's mouth felt like chalk. "Others?"

"Sure. There were two more besides Father Gregory; at least, two that I saw. Gave me the willies, both of 'em." She shivered, and her eyes grew distant. "Darius used to be the sweetest, most sensitive little boy. Heart on his sleeve, all that. Gentlest soul I ever met. But a few months at that school, and he started to change."

Georgia's chest ached. He must have changed a lot. The Darius she knew had his heart tucked significantly deeper than his sleeve.

J met her eyes. "I saw how he suffered. He was like an exposed nerve, poor boy. So yes, I offered once to teach him some things. Do you know what he said to me?"

Georgia's stomach started to hurt. "What?"

J's mouth twisted. "He told me thank you, but the priests at school said his gift was a punishment from God. That if he wanted relief, he should pray for forgiveness for whatever he'd done to deserve it." Her eyes welled up. She shook her head. "Who says something like that to a child?"

Georgia swallowed hard. Her dinner felt like it was lodged at the base of her throat.

J's expression grew fierce. "Darius was a good boy, and he's become a good man. But he doesn't see it. Those people made him ashamed of who he was. You ask me, he's been ashamed ever since."

Georgia felt sick. She stared down at her plate.

When she looked up again, J was watching her. "He's different, you know. I saw it the instant I laid eyes on him again. You got him to shield, didn't you?"

Georgia nodded.

J's eyes softened. "I've seen how you two are together. And Darius—he looks relaxed. Happy. Can't remember the last time I saw him happy." She met Georgia's eyes again. "Thank you. Thank you for taking care of my boy."

Georgia's eyes stung. She picked at her lasagna some more, but couldn't bring herself to eat it. She and J sat in silence until the back door finally swung open.

Darius came back in alone. He visibly sagged when he trudged in from the mudroom. He didn't say anything about what had happened outside, and Georgia didn't ask. Whatever it was clearly hadn't been good. He stopped at the sink, planted his hands on the counter and leaned into them.

J took one look at him, and a sad expression crossed her face. "I'll go get the guest rooms ready." She rose to her feet and retreated into the hallway. A few seconds later, Georgia heard the stairs squeak.

She waited a moment, then stood. Darius didn't look at her. She approached him carefully, cringed at how loud her footsteps sounded. He still didn't acknowledge her. Pain radiated from him like a toxic cloud.

Georgia hesitated, then reached out and touched his arm. "D?" He stiffened, and she quickly pulled her hand back. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"It's late." His voice sounded rough. "We should turn in. We'll head out first thing tomorrow."

Georgia nodded. "Right. Of course." She paused. "Listen, D..."

By then, Darius was already on his way out of the kitchen.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

#

She doubted she'd be able to fall asleep, so she didn't try.

Georgia stood in front of her room's tall, double window. J had loaned her some nightclothes, but after quick deliberation, she'd opted not to use them. She'd never been comfortable in borrowed clothes. For tonight, her skin was enough.

She did make use of the bathrobe J had given her. The worn terrycloth was soft around her as she stared out into the night. Across the street, a chain link fence blocked off the waterline. Farther out, massive cranes glittered on a distant pier. Their orange lights winked against the black waters of the Bay.

The moon was high in the sky. Barely a week left until it reached full. Already, she could feel something building. Exactly what, she wasn't sure. Georgia pulled the robe a little tighter. A chill crept over her skin.

_A hellhound_. The thought wormed its way into her mind. Her heart kicked weakly. For all she knew, it was watching her now, weighing all her many sins, deciding on the most appropriate way to punish her. Wasn't that what hellhounds did, after all? Punish the wicked?

Maybe this was the threefold law kicking in. Her heart started to race. If her punishment was even half of what she deserved... Georgia swayed, and planted a hand against the window frame.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

There was only one person who would be knocking at this time of night. She crossed her arms. "Come in."

The door opened with barely a sound. It closed a second later. Darius' presence seemed to fill the small room. Georgia's pulse steadied without slowing down.

He didn't speak, and she didn't turn. They stood in silence for a few minutes. Then she drew a deep breath. "You know, my mom and I used to watch the moon together."

Darius' voice was gravelly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." What the hell was she telling him for? Georgia moistened her lips. "Every night. We used to track it across the sky before we went to bed, measure all the different phases. It wasn't about magic. Not really. It was just our own special ritual."

He didn't answer right away. She was beginning to think he wouldn't when he spoke. "You always talk about her in past tense. Did something happen?"

Her throat tightened instantly. "Cancer." She had to force the word out. "Few years back."

His tone softened. "I'm sorry."

Georgia blinked hard. "Yeah, well. It was over quick. That was something, at least." Pain clawed at her chest. She changed the subject. "That man who came by. Was he your brother?"

To her surprise, Darius didn't leave. Wood creaked as he leaned against the wall. "Cousin. But we grew up like brothers."

Georgia waited.

He released a heavy breath. "I never knew my father, and my mom split pretty early on. My aunt took me in. She did her best, all things considered. Worked two jobs to support me and her other kids. Then Dante came along. She had to go back to work right away, so I basically raised him." His voice grew strained. "Some job I did."

Georgia stared at the cranes on the horizon. "Did you see your aunt? Before I got here, I mean."

"No." Darius laughed softly. "I was never really one of hers. My _gift_ ," he spat the word like a curse, "always scared her. She thought I'd been touched by the devil."

"J doesn't seem to agree," Georgia murmured. "She seems like an expert on stuff like that."

Darius didn't answer, and Georgia didn't push. For several long moments, the only sound in the room was her own heartbeat. Then she heard him straighten. "You said you and your mom used to keep track of the moon. What phase is it tonight?"

Georgia answered without hesitation. "Waxing gibbous. More than half-lit, but still less than full. Comes between one and two weeks after the new moon. Starts rising around noon. By sunset, it's high in the east."

He chuckled, a warm, rich sound that made something inside her both relax and tighten at the same time. "You're full of surprises, Ms. Clare."

Georgia's heart kicked in her chest. "Georgia."

The air around them seemed to still. When Darius spoke, he didn't sound like he was breathing. "What?"

"Call me Georgia." She swallowed again. "I like the way you say it."

"Georgia." Her name rolled off his tongue. His voice was different now, like molten honey. The floorboards creaked. "If you know the moon's phases that well, you must know their magical applications, too."

Georgia's pulse started to thrum. "Of course."

"So?" His voice sounded closer. "What kind of magic might someone work during a waxing gibbous?"

"Different kinds." Georgia forced herself to breathe evenly. "People use it to help assess their goals. Refine them." She moistened her lips. "It's good for positive magic. You know, to draw things to you."

"Like what?"

He had definitely moved closer. She could feel his heat behind her. Georgia shivered. "Lots of things."

"Cold?"

"No." She shook her head. Her belly felt strangely light.

He slid one finger through her hair. Georgia jumped a little, but didn't stop him. Darius hooked the collar of her robe and slowly bared her neck, her collarbone. "What kinds of things?"

Georgia swallowed hard. "Money is always popular."

Darius' _hmm_ vibrated over her skin. His finger dusted the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. "What else?"

"Health." Georgia barely recognized her own voice. "Positive affirmations are particularly effective."

Darius' presence warmed her back. She felt him lean down. His breath tickled her neck. "What else?"

He didn't say what he wanted, but then, he didn't have to. She wanted the same thing. Georgia turned, and pressed her lips to his.

It was like he'd been waiting for her to make the first move. His thumb pressed her chin. Her lips parted, and his tongue slipped into her mouth. Georgia groaned. The taste of him did something to her brain, made her forget herself, the world, the bullshit. When they were like this, everything felt simple.

God, she wanted simple.

She reached up and clung to his leather jacket. The difference in their states of dress suddenly struck her. He was still fully clothed. She was basically naked.

Darius seemed to realize it the same instant she did. His deft fingers made quick work of the robe's belt. He left the robe itself in place, and slid his hands inside. Georgia sucked in a breath. Skin-on-skin. The sensation made her knees go weak. Slick heat pooled between her legs.

Her fingers were shaking when she tugged at his jacket. Miracle of miracles, Darius shrugged it off. It dropped to the floor behind him. Underneath, he wore a sweater over his undershirt. Georgia snorted in spite of herself. "More layers?"

Amusement flared in his eyes, along with something decidedly darker. "Careful, witch."

She didn't have a chance to retort before he slipped the robe off her shoulder. He traced a finger down the line of her neck. His eyes heated. "Soft." He bent over and ran his lips down the same trail. His teeth grazed her skin.

Georgia gasped, and let her head fall back. "Shit. Darius..."

His approving hum vibrated against her throat. "And sensitive." He nipped her collarbone.

Georgia clasped her hands behind his head, dug her fingers into the smooth skin. Darius' arms closed around her. His hands slid lower. He filled them with flesh, squeezed. She bowed against him.

The fabric of his sweater was rougher than it looked. It abraded her nipples, a delicious agony. Georgia groaned out loud. "Darius."

She was fumbling with his jeans before she even realized she'd moved. She found the zipper, and Darius froze. She did too.

He released her and took a step back. Then another. Moonlight washed through the window, bathed him in an ethereal glow. He caught her eyes, trapped them. Then he hooked his thumbs under the hem of his undershirt, and in one motion pulled both it and the sweater over his head.

Georgia's mouth went dry. Dear god, he was perfect . Chiseled muscles swathed in black velvet. She took a hesitant step towards him. He didn't move.

She closed the distance, reached out and flattened her palm against his chest. An intricate design was tattooed over his heart. The outer edges curled upwards to his neck. So this was what she always saw peeking above his starched collars. Georgia ran her fingertips along one especially elaborate flourish. "What's this one?"

"Veve. Of Papa Legba." His breath was ragged, too.

Georgia let her fingers dance over his skin. The texture was every bit as sumptuous as it looked. She traced the words going down his right arm. "This is the one you showed Father Gregory."

He nodded. "The Saint Michael Prayer."

She slid her hand across to his other arm without breaking contact, looked up and met his eyes.

His lips quirked at the unvoiced question. "Psalm 91."

Georgia touched the ornate calligraphy. "Did they hurt?"

He sucked in a breath when she grazed the fine skin of his inner arm. "Not much." His teeth flashed white in the darkness. "But I'll show you what did..."

He turned, and Georgia couldn't help the awestruck sound that rose up her throat. On his back was an angel. It was kneeling, head down. One hand held a sword, the other, a set of scales. Its wings spanned the broad width of his shoulders. Feathers extended down the backs of his arms.

"Wow." She stepped in for a better look. "Who is it?"

"St. Michael the Archangel, of course." Darius spoke over his shoulder. "Champion of the Lord's army, who weighs the souls of the dead."

Georgia reached out and touched one of the wings. Darius' back rippled. She pulled her hand back. "What are all these for?"

He turned back around. His eyes burned into hers. "Protection."

This time, he was the one who reached for her. Georgia shivered, then leaned up and pressed her lips to the veve. Darius threaded his fingers through her hair. A groan rumbled in his chest. Georgia traced part of the pattern with her tongue. He tasted delicious: salt and soap, and something else that defied description.

Then his thumb was under her chin. He tilted her face upward, and took her lips again.

It would have been so easy to just melt into him, to lose herself in the heat of his mouth. Georgia resisted. She wanted to remember this. All of this. She didn't want oblivion—at least, not yet.

Darius eased back, brushed the edges of her robe. "Georgia..."

If she didn't know better, she'd have thought he was shy. Georgia took a deep breath. Her belly fluttered. This was happening. They were doing this. She paused a moment, waited for her heartbeat to steady. Then she shrugged off the robe.

Darius' lips parted. His eyes roved over her. Heat bloomed everywhere he looked. He cocked his head. His lips twitched. "You're turning pink."

Georgia felt herself flush deeper. Darius chuckled. His eyes locked on her breasts, and the chuckle faded. He grazed his fingertips up her ribcage, brushed his thumbs over her nipples. "Beautiful."

Georgia forgot to breathe.

His hands dropped to her hips, and he walked her backwards. The backs of her knees hit the bed. Her pulse skyrocketed. She sank backwards, and the mattress creaked gently under her weight.

Darius stared down at her. For the first time since she'd known him, his face was an open book. Every line, every plane, was rigid with need. The need to touch. The need to feel. The pain she'd glimpsed earlier was there too, as stark and raw as she remembered.

Georgia's chest squeezed. She held out a hand. "Come here."

The look on his face made her quiver. He planted his hands on either side of her head, and lowered himself over her. His lips found hers again, but he didn't stay long enough for a kiss. He tore away, nipped and sucked his way down her neck. Georgia clasped his face in her hands. Stubble pricked her palms. The interplay of muscle and bone beneath her fingers was endlessly fascinating; yet another salvo in a barrage of sensation.

He leaned briefly into her touch, then shifted his weight onto one hand, with the other neatly retrieved hers and pinned them over her head. Georgia arched reflexively, and his eyes flashed. He bent down and scraped his stubble-roughened cheek against her breast. She hissed.

Abruptly, rough skin changed to liquid heat. Georgia melted a little, looked down just as Darius closed his mouth around her nipple. His tongue lashed the taut peak, and a bolt of need raced straight to her clit. He did it again. She struggled to free herself; at the very least, to free one hand. She only needed one. Darius simply tightened his grip.

He switched his focus to her other breast. A whimper snaked up her throat. She wrapped her legs around his waist and rocked against the stiff fabric of his jeans. His breath hitched, then he shifted his hips and rocked into her right back.

They both groaned at the same time. Georgia again struggled to free her hands, more insistently this time. "Darius." God, was that her voice? It was deeper than usual, huskier. "I want you naked."

He growled a little. "Pushy."

All the same, he pushed off the bed and went to work on his fly. Georgia tucked her arms behind her head and watched. Gods, even his fingers were muscular. He finished with the button and yanked down the zipper. The soft _snick_ sounded deafening in the quiet room.

Georgia wet her lips. The ache between her legs intensified. She reached down and touched herself.

Darius sucked in a ragged breath. "Goddamn. Look at you."

Heat flooded her cheeks. Georgia started to pull her hand away.

"No." His eyes were glued to her fingers. "Don't stop."

At first it felt awkward, playing with herself while he watched. But then he stripped off his jeans, and it suddenly became a lot easier. Georgia's eyes locked on the obvious bulge in his boxer briefs. Darius was fishing through his jeans for something. He glanced up, nearly dropped them.

Georgia smirked.

Darius cleared his throat and pulled a wallet from the back pocket. He slipped something from the billfold and tossed it on the bed, then dropped both the jeans and the wallet to the floor. Before Georgia could look to see what he'd grabbed, he shucked the boxer briefs.

Holy fuck, had she thought he was gorgeous before? Darius clothed had nothing on Darius naked. Darius clothed was a thing of beauty. Darius naked was a work of art. Hard lines and carved muscle and mouthwatering flesh.

And of course there was his cock.

The rest of him was perfect; it only made sense that would be, too. He was thick, long, what looked almost painfully erect—Georgia's face heated. Now _she_ was feeling shy.

Darius seemed to know what she was thinking. Without a word, he lowered himself back to the bed. Surrounded by his massive body, her air saturated with his scent, it would have been easy to feel trapped. But he seemed to know that, too, and kept his weight balanced on one arm.

She didn't realize she'd stopped moving her hand until he reached down and covered it with his. Georgia's belly flipped. His voice was gruff in her ear. "Keep going."

She obeyed, swirled her fingers against her clit and teased the swollen, sensitive flesh further down. Her mouth drifted open on a sigh. Darius kept his hand light over hers, never taking over, simply following her lead. The ache inside her started to tighten.

She looked up at his face. He was watching her, brow creased with concentration. Suddenly, she understood what he was doing. He was learning. Letting her teach him how to please her.

That exquisite ache wrenched even tighter. Heat bloomed in her core. Georgia gasped. "Holy shit, I'm—"

Darius' lips cut her off. At the same time, he gently pressed down on her fingers.

Ecstasy streaked through her, white hot. It continued without lessening, and she dimly realized he'd taken over touching her. His long, wicked fingers wrung wave after wave of pleasure from her until that was all she knew, all she remembered.

He let out a rough curse, then his fingers disappeared. Georgia groped for him blindly. "Darius. Fuck, don't stop."

"Not stopping."

She heard foil rip, and the smell of latex pricked her nostrils. Georgia looked down in time to see him roll the condom down his solid shaft, then he surged over her. His face was so tight it seemed the slightest movement might shatter it. She reached up and smoothed her hands over his cheeks, traced the sharp edge of his jaw. Her fingers found the studs in his ears.

Darius groaned, reached down and guided himself to her wetness.

The feel of his blunt head nudging inside her nearly sent her over the edge again. A voice in her brain screamed for her to dig her heels into his ass and take the rest of him, right away, all at once. At the last minute, practicality won out. He was large, and it had been a while. Georgia dropped her arms and fisted her hands in the quilt. Every fiber of her being hummed expectantly.

Darius' hips flexed, and he sank deeper. Georgia sucked in a breath as her body stretched to accommodate him. He kept going. Her next breath strangled in her throat. Heat suffused all her deepest places, flooded every crack and corner. Pain nipped at the outer edges of pleasure.

His pelvis finally bumped her ass. His face was even tighter than before. He found her eyes. "You good?" His voice was hoarse.

Hell yes, she was good. Georgia struggled to breathe. "Just give me a second. I didn't realize you were so...blessed."

He let out a short, breathless laugh. She felt it deep in her core.

Experimentally, she moved her hips. Something dark and thrilling took root inside her. Darius exhaled. Some of the tension melted from his face. "God—do that again."

She did, this time added a little roll. The resulting sensation was downright rapturous. Darius made a choking noise. "Devil woman."

Georgia's cheeks burned. The way he said it sounded like a compliment. Or a prayer.

He clasped underneath her thighs and settled back on his heels, giving her no choice but to move with him. His eyes locked on hers. He arched an eyebrow.

The order couldn't have been more clear. Georgia braced her elbows on the mattress and started to ride. Darius huffed lightly. Pure bliss flooded his face. He released her legs, ran his hands up her belly and molded her breasts.

Slowly, her body grew pliant around him. His cock stroked some secret place no one else had ever quite managed to find. Georgia moved faster, caught up in a delicious frenzy she couldn't have controlled if she wanted to. Heat and pressure built again, stoked by his clever fingers. He reached between them, lower, and touched her the same way she'd touched herself.

She came apart with a strangled whimper. Darius gave her a brief second to ride it out, then flipped her onto her side. His weight pinned her to the bed, and he drove into her balls-deep. Georgia's jaw went slack. A scream rose up her throat. Darius clamped a hand over her mouth.

He smelled like sex. _Their_ sex.

This time when she crested, she didn't come down.

Everything receded except the details that mattered most. The sound of his flesh against hers. The slick feel of his cock inside her. The almost vicious look on his face as he claimed his pleasure, too.

He fumbled for her hands and pinned them over her head again. Georgia moaned as her entire body drew taut. She curled her fingers around his. Darius' heartbeat thundered in her ear. His movements grew erratic.

Then his powerful body clenched above her. He buried his face in her hair, pressed his lips to the side of her neck. His relief-soaked groan disappeared into her skin. A delicious tremor rolled over him.

Impossibly, another wave rose up inside her to meet it. A single thought hovered in her mind: oblivion had never felt so good.

Then that too melted away, and she couldn't remember how to think at all.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

#

"Come here."

The look on her face made his insides quake. He needed to go slow, to take his time, but suddenly his hands were pillared on either side of her head. Suddenly, his lips were on hers.

Muffled voices filtered in from somewhere outside the room. Darius stirred.

God, he couldn't kiss her. Not yet. If he did, this would be over before it started. He tore away, vented his frustration on her neck. Cool hands bracketed his face. He'd shaved that morning, but his daily shadow had already grown in. His skin would be rough.

She didn't seem to mind.

"Darius?"

Darius jolted. His eyes popped open. He looked around the unfamiliar room. Confusion briefly tightened in his chest, then he remembered where he was. Something soft and warm moved beside him. Darius looked down.

He missed his next breath.

Was he still dreaming? He had to be, because Georgia Clare was curled up next to him, and she was naked. A stray sliver of moonlight set her pale skin aglow. She murmured something in her sleep, sighed, and rolled onto her back. The dusky tips of her breasts stiffened in the cool air.

He was instantly hard.

This was no dream. The evening's events started to replay in his head, each image more explicit than the last. Darius' pulse quickened. Without thinking, he reached under the quilt and stroked Georgia's silken thigh.

They could do it again. It would be so simple to just part her legs, seat himself inside her, fuck her awake. His balls tightened at the thought.

"Darius!"

Darius' head jerked towards the door. J? What was she doing up this time of night? And how long had she been standing there? He vaguely remembered her voice jolting him out of his dream. His face heated.

He aimed one last look at Georgia, then carefully rolled off the opposite side of the bed. His legs shook a little. He swallowed a chuckle, retrieved his jeans from the floor and pulled them on. Then he crossed the room and eased open the door.

J stared up at him, eyes wide and frightened. His blood froze. "What's wrong?"

"They're here," she whispered. "Downstairs. They want to see you."

Darius' chest tightened. "Who's here? Who wants to see me?" He had a sinking feeling he already knew.

J swallowed audibly. "Not sure. West Point boys, I think? Couldn't see very well in the dark." She paused. "Dante's with them."

The air punched out of his lungs. "You're sure?"

J nodded, a pained expression on her face. "He's the only one I know I recognized."

Darius grimaced. He started to answer when a soft noise made him turn. Georgia was sitting up. She pulled the blanket to her chin. "Darius?" Her voice was thick with sleep. "What's going on?"

J glanced from one of them to the other. Her face softened briefly, then hardened again. "I'll tell them you're not here." She drew her shoulders back. Her eyes flashed. "I'll tell them you already left."

"Absolutely not." He'd been gone a long time, but if the people downstairs were anything like the people he remembered...Darius reached out and clasped her shoulder. "I'll be right down. Don't open the door without me."

He waited until J nodded her assent, then released her and shut the bedroom door. Without a word, he started back towards his clothes.

Georgia was wide awake now. She watched while he stripped off his jeans and reached for his underwear. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"

The fear in her voice only strengthened his resolve. "Not we. Me." He pulled his jeans on again and grabbed his undershirt, still inside his sweater. "It's probably nothing. Some misunderstanding, is all." He tugged them both over his head at the same time, sat on the edge of the bed and started on his socks. "I just need to go down and straighten things out."

He finished pulling on his boots, and finally looked at her. The worry on her face melted some of the ice in his veins. He leaned over and caught her lips under his. Then he plucked his jacket off the floor and stood.

Georgia stood too. She strode to the chair where she'd laid her clothes, and began getting dressed. "I'm coming."

He didn't have time to argue. Darius shrugged into his jacket, crossed back to the door, and headed out without a word.

J was already downstairs. True to her word, she stood at the foot of the staircase. She looked smaller than usual in her nightclothes and baggy robe. Darius' chest twinged. She looked up when she heard him coming. Darius touched her arm, then continued towards the door.

He slowed when he neared it. Muffled voices echoed from the porch outside. Darius took another step. The floor creaked. He froze, and the voices fell silent. A few seconds passed. Then someone spoke up.

"That you, blood?"

A chill ran down his spine. The chorus of voices picked back up.

"Open the door, blood, open the door!"

"We know you in there, deCompostela. Come on out!"

"Just want to talk to you, blood. Open the door!"

J came up beside him, and Darius glanced down at her. Her eyes were even wider than before. She wrapped her fingers around his arm and shook her head.

Darius took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The crowd on the front porch was larger than he'd realized. There were a few faces he knew; many more he didn't. Was it just him, or were most of them younger than he remembered? His eye settled on a boy who couldn't have been more than twelve. Darius fought to keep his expression in check. Acid burned in his stomach.

He took another deep breath. "What's this all about?"

One of the men stepped forward. He looked vaguely familiar. Hadn't they lived in the same building once?

"Long time, D." A silver cap flashed in his mouth when he spoke.

_Jervais_. That was his name. Darius nodded slowly. "Long time. Something I can help you with?"

"What, we can't come welcome a brother back to the neighborhood? Like I said, been a long time." The cap flashed again. "We just wanted to catch up."

"At three in the morning?" Darius scanned the faces in front of him. Sure enough, Dante was among them, standing near the back. "Y'all woke up Ms. Porter."

Jervais didn't look the least bit repentant. "We should get out of here, then. Go someplace we can talk."

Something dark and foreboding twisted in the pit of his stomach. "Like where?"

"Not far. Come on, you can ride with us."

Darius eyed the collection of cars gathered along the curb. Rims and spinners glinted in the moonlight. He tried to catch Dante's eye. Failed. "Gonna have to take a pass. Got an early start in the morning."

He could feel when the energy in the group shifted. Jervais' voice turned silky. "Don't be like that, D. Thing is, Candy Man heard you was back in the Point. He'd like to see you. Give you a proper goodbye this time, know what I'm saying?"

He sure did. All too well. Darius' muscles started to tense.

J elbowed her way up to his side. She crossed her arms and glowered at Jervais. "You deaf, boy? He said he ain't going with you. Now you all get back in your fancy cars and get the hell out of here. This is private property."

A few hoots went up. Jervais' expression darkened. "Shut your mouth, witch. Don't get mixed up in something's none of your business." He turned back to Darius. "You're coming with us, D. You can make it easy or you can make it hard, but you're coming with us."

"He's not going anywhere."

Darius' gut rolled. Georgia came up on his other side. He glanced down at her. "I thought I told you to stay upstairs. I've got this."

She snorted softly. "Yeah. That's what it looks like." She lifted her chin and glared out at the sea of faces in front of them. "Just say the word, and I'll hex every last one of them."

A few of the men standing near the front recoiled. The rest shifted nervously. Jervais' lip curled. He took a defiant step forward. "Just you try it. Ask Darius how we deal with your kind around here." He raised his voice for the rest of the crew to hear. "Maybe we should make these witches burn!"

"Enough!" Darius looked back at Georgia. Her face was an unhealthy shade of gray. He shook J's hand off his arm and stepped forward. "Leave them alone."

Jervais cocked his head. A slow, predatory smile crept across his face. "On second thought, maybe we don't need you after all." His gaze slid to Georgia. "Maybe Candy Man will settle for your bitch instead."

Darius was already on the porch by the time he finished talking. He brought his nose directly up to the other man's. "You want to talk about burning? Any one of your boys touches her, I'll burn your fucking world down."

Jervais blinked.

Darius stepped back. "You said Candy Man wants to see me? Fine."

Georgia sucked in a breath. "Darius—"

He didn't let himself look at her, instead started towards the porch steps. The mob parted around him. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

† † †

The usual guard was missing from the entrance to the old shipyard.

Darius sat in the back of Jervais' '91 Honda Prelude, sandwiched between two burly, blank-faced men. A line of cars followed behind them. They sailed through the deserted checkpoint without slowing.

Jervais turned down a narrow side street and headed deeper into the yard. The car jounced along the battered pavement, each pothole jostling Darius into the men. He stared out the windows, tried to memorize the ominous-looking buildings that flanked the street. By the looks of them, they were all abandoned. Darkness yawned behind the dusty, glass-paned windows.

Fuck, he hoped Georgia had gotten her ass out of the Point. Darius shut his eyes briefly. He doubted she'd have left on her own, but maybe J had managed to talk some sense into her. It was a short shot from the Conjure House up to Third Street. If she'd left immediately, she and Dolores could be halfway through Potrero Hill by now.

A leaden feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. And maybe Candy Man just wanted to talk.

The small procession rolled up to a soaring, glass-paned building. Brakes whined. Before Darius had a chance to register what was happening, he was half-shoved, half-dragged out of the Prelude. Beefy hands closed around his arms. He yanked himself free.

The click of a safety release froze him in his tracks. Jervais tsked. "Careful, blood. Never know when a brother might get an itchy trigger finger, you know what I'm saying?"

Darius tightened his jaw.

The rest of the crew massed at his back and hustled him towards the building. A chain link fence surrounded the large front loading door. They bypassed it for a second, smaller side door, almost invisible behind a patch of tall pampas grass. Jervais pushed it open without a moment's hesitation, and strode inside.

One of the behemoths from the Prelude gave Darius a shove. Reluctantly, he followed. A dull crunch underfoot made him look down. The unmistakable outline of a metal padlock glinted against the dead, dark earth. The shackle had been shorn clean through.

They weren't alone.

The man behind him gave him another shove. Darius pressed his lips together, and continued inside.

The interior of the building was predictably dark, the glass windows too coated with grime to allow much moonlight through. Jervais clicked on a small flashlight. Twin colonnades of corroded metal I-beams flanked a large open floor. An elaborate latticework of crossbeams was faintly visible in the shadows that wreathed the ceiling.

Darius allowed himself a quick glance around. He doubted the place had been a warehouse. A machine shop, maybe? Dents in the oil-stained floor suggested the previous presence of heavy machinery. Dirt and loose concrete ground under his feet as he walked.

In the center of the room sat a lone desk chair. The rigid design was in perfect keeping with the austere surroundings. Jervais nodded towards it. "Take a load off, D."

Darius' neck started to itch. He squared his shoulders, stepped up to it and sat down.

The rest of the crew slowly circled around him. Everyone was ignoring him, talking and joking with each other. Darius braced himself, but hardly anyone looked at him. It was almost as if they were...

"Darius deCompostela." His name reverberated off the metal rafters.

_...Waiting for someone_. Everyone else fell silent.

"What it do, brother?"

Darius cringed. The voice had come from behind him. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to turn. "What it do, C-Man."

Footsteps paced for a moment, then the speaker strutted around in front of him. Baggy jeans, crisp white tee shirt, long dreads, an ostentatious gold chain swinging around his neck; there could be no mistaking just who Candy Man was.

The boss.

And it was clearly more than just a skin-deep effect. There was a hardness that radiated from him, something almost feral. Darius had seen it before, not just here, but on other jobs. This was a man who made his living on the streets. Who dealt in misery and blood.

Darius quickly scanned surrounding faces. Too many pairs of flat, hooded eyes stared back at him. Dante was nowhere to be seen.

Candy Man snapped his fingers. "Yo! Front-and-center, blood. You know why you here?"

Darius shrugged. "Your boy Jervais said you missed me. I was touched."

Candy Man grinned, revealing a full set of gold teeth. "Sure enough, blood, sure enough." The smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Dante always said you was funny. You wouldn't believe how much he talks about you."

Again, Darius searched for Dante. Again, he couldn't find him.

"Gotta hand it to you, you did right with that one." Candy Man didn't look away. "He's one of my best. On his way to being something, know what I'm saying? Works hard, keeps his mouth shut...and that boy of his."

Darius felt his shoulders tighten. "What about him?"

Candy Man shook his head. "Young blood's got fire in his veins. You can tell just by looking at him. We're gonna turn him into something real special." His smile sharpened. "Gonna turn him into a fucking killer."

Darius' stomach turned. He swallowed the bile that rose up his throat. "You wanted to see me for something?"

"Relax, blood, we're just talking." Candy Man cocked his head. "Unless you got some kind of a problem. That it? You got a problem with how we do?"

Darius glanced around. The rest of the crew seemed to have moved closer. He schooled his expression to blank. "Don't figure it's any of my business either way."

Candy Man tsked. "That ain't no answer, D. And here's _my_ problem." He started to pace around the chair. "There's shit about you just don't line up. Shit that makes me... _uncomfortable_."

Darius felt his jaw start to tic. "Shit like what?"

Candy Man kept circling. "Like how you never repped your own block. Like how you went to that bitch ass church school." He leaned over and spoke into Darius' ear. "Other folks 'round here thought you was crazy, always talking 'bout ghosts and shit, but I knew the truth. You thought you was better than us. Still do."

All around him, energy was building, darkening. Darius could feel it crackling over his skin. He resisted the urge to wince. "That's not—"

"And you know what else?" Candy Man straightened again. "Funny thing. You up and leave the Point. Same fucking day, our set gets busted. Five-oh shows up with fucking bulletproof vests and assault rifles, know what I'm saying? Knew all about what we had stashed, where, how much. Almost like someone had tipped 'em off."

Darius' hands went cold. "You don't think—"

"What? That you're a fucking rat?" Candy Man's voice boomed off the metal girders. "That's exactly what I think!"

His leg moved in a blur, and sharp pain exploded in Darius' side where the other man's shoe struck. The world tilted sideways.

The next instant he was on the ground. The crew closed in around him. For a second, he thought he glimpsed Dante through the sea of hate-filled faces.

Then the blows started coming.

He could have taken on one of them for sure. Two, easily. Three, probably. But the hail of punches and kicks that rained in from every direction was too much. Darius did the only thing left, curled into a ball and shielded his head as best he could. The energy was still on the rise. He was only dimly aware of it. Pain strafed his back, his legs, his arms. Multiple pairs of hands grabbed at him, tried to force his limbs open.

He felt the magic in his head first.

Initially, it felt like someone had cranked a subwoofer to full-blast. Bass notes vibrated inside his skull, more sensation than sound. His belly quivered. Darius turned his head slightly, listened.

A well-placed kick caught him in the cheek. He hissed, and curled tight again.

The windows started rattling. At last, everyone else began to notice what he'd already sensed. Something was approaching. Gradually, the attacks on him slowed. Stopped. The air thickened.

Unearthly silence blanketed the building. Darius didn't move. This was magic like he'd never felt before. He knew only one person who could summon anything like it.

Something that sounded like ripping metal shredded the deadly quiet. The inaudible bass smoothed into a low, steady hum. Outside, a low, mechanical growl rumbled closer and closer. Darius caught his breath. He knew that sound, and it wasn't magic.

It was a motorcycle.

No one was paying attention to him anymore. All around him, men shifted nervously. More than one safety clicked off more than one firearm. Darius silently maneuvered into a crouch.

A pop that resembled a gunshot cracked through the air. Everyone jumped. At the far end of the shop floor, the loading door began a slow, grating ascent. Long-rusted metal screeched in anguish. The growl of the motorcycle became deafening.

Darius moistened his cracked lips. Kristof's words ran through his head on a loop: _Georgia Clare is one of the most powerful witches I've ever seen._

The Valkyrie rolled through the door in a blaze of chrome and gleaming black paint. Darius blinked, then stared. Georgia looked like a goddess on the warpath. She sat proudly in the saddle, her back straight. She wasn't wearing her helmet, and her hair swirled around her shoulders like a dark halo. Her face was hard. Her eyes glowed.

She would have been terrifying enough at that, but she had also brought her magic with her.

Both she and the Valk were encased in what looked like an electric fog, so black it seemed to actively devour the surrounding light. One glance at the wide-eyed faces around him confirmed he wasn't the only one who saw it. Darius looked back at Georgia. A slow, creeping dread took root in his gut.

Magic as he'd always understood it was intangible, invisible. He'd never heard of any magic, even black magic, behaving like this.

Damn, baby, what did you do?

Candy Man recovered first. He looked down at Darius. His lip curled. "If you think your bitch is gonna save you..." He aimed a vicious kick into Darius' ribs. Darius doubled over with a wheeze.

Georgia's voice was impossibly deep, unnaturally loud. "That was a mistake."

Candy Man turned to her, in the same motion pulled a 9mm from the waistband of his boxers.

Georgia revved the Valk's engine. The six-cylinder bellowed like it had come to life. Twin jets of green flame streaked from the exhaust pipes. At the same time, her magic crackled. The hum intensified. The debris that littered the concrete floor began to quake.

Darius clutched his side and struggled to his feet.

" _Insurgo_."

The ground jolted. Darius dropped back to his knees. A deafening clatter went up, and what appeared to be a corroded locknut drifted past his face. He turned. The inside of the building looked like someone had suddenly turned off gravity. Old boards, chips of concrete, unidentifiable pieces of metal were all rising into the air.

" _Vorso_."

The rubble began to spin, whipped by a nonexistent wind. All around him, men cursed, cried out, dropped to the ground. The windows exploded inward, one after another. The shards of glass joined the whirling shrapnel.

A stray splinter sliced his cheek. Darius dropped to his belly. He couldn't hear above the roar of the cyclone, but he felt the ground vibrated underneath him. The wheels of the Valk came into view. A familiar gloved hand reached down. He looked up. Georgia was saying something. Her voice was lost in the maelstrom, but he could read her lips.

Let's go.

Darius clasped her hand and hauled himself onto the saddle behind her. He stole a brief second to scan the stunned faces behind him. At last, he found Dante. The other man had a small cut in his forehead. Brilliant streaks of scarlet stained the front of his shirt.

He looked up, and their eyes met. A mix of emotions flickered over his face.

Georgia gunned the engine. This time, the Valk's throaty snarl nearly drowned out the roar of the magic. Dante's gaze shifted to the open loading door. Then he looked back at Darius, and nodded.

Georgia opened up the throttle. The engine let out a joyful snort as the torque it had been holding back suddenly surged free. The back wheel screeched as Georgia bullied it into a sharp about-face.

They raced out of the building on a wave of thunder, leaving a trail of scorched rubber behind them.

† † †

It was stupid to stop, but there was something he needed to know.

At his urging, Georgia pulled over just outside the entrance to the shipyard. God only knew how long they had before Candy Man and the rest of the crew mobilized again. Darius got straight to the point.

"That was more than just black magic, wasn't it?"

He'd expected equivocation, denial. He was surprised—and more than a little disconcerted—when Georgia simply nodded. "Yes."

"So then what...I mean, how—"

She turned around in the seat and met his eyes. "Death magic."

The dread that had been festering in his gut wrenched into a knot. Darius stared at her. "And you can just...tap into that? No problem, no consequences, nothing?"

"Not exactly." Georgia winced. "This kind of magic is...a little different. It's primordial. It comes at a price."

Darius had to remind himself to keep breathing. "And exactly what was the price of that little stunt back there?"

"For that amount of magic? Not much." Her eyes drifted away from his. "A small sacrifice."

"Sacrifice. You mean you had to kill something?" Darius leaned back heavily in the saddle. His stomach rebelled. Jesus, he was going to be sick.

Georgia watched him carefully. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. "I crunched a roach on the way in."

He didn't answer.

She was still watching him. "Are you afraid of me?"

Darius sighed, and dragged a hand over his face. "No. No, I'm not afraid of you."

Her lips twisted in a joyless smile. "You should be." She turned back around, and gunned the engine again.

The drive back to J's was shorter than it had felt earlier. The moon had gone down, and the sky was dark. Darius was still trying to wrap his head around everything that had happened when acrid smoke pricked his nostrils. He craned his neck over Georgia's head. Towards the end of the street, the sky over J's house glowed an ominous orange.

Georgia revved the engine and sped up. They drew closer, and Darius' heart stopped.

The Conjure House was on fire.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

#

Georgia pulled up to the curb across the street. She had scarcely stopped when Darius vaulted off.

What looked like the entire neighborhood was gathered in the street. The firetrucks hadn't arrived yet, but by the looks of things, they wouldn't do much good. The grand old Victorian was engulfed in flames. The mudroom was already gone. Blinding yellow fire poured from the windows and doors. Orange-hued smoke billowed off the roof. Black char marks streaked the aqua paint.

Darius charged into the crowd. Georgia swore, jammed down the kickstand and followed. She struggled to keep up as he elbowed his way to the sidewalk. He grabbed one man's shoulder and spun him around. _"_ WHERE'S J? _"_ he bellowed.

The man shook his head, and nodded wordlessly at the house.

Georgia's stomach bottomed out. Darius roared. Eyes wild, he charged towards the steps. The other man caught him. Darius fought to break free. Three more men leaped forward and grabbed his arms.

Georgia's head was spinning. She ducked under his arm and braced her hands against his chest. The look on his face nearly brought her to her knees. He stared up at the inferno, tears streaming from his eyes. His mouth opened in a scream. No sound came out.

Dimly, she realized her cheeks were wet, too. Each breath dragged searing hot smoke into her lungs. Georgia choked back a sob, and turned to the first man. "What happened?"

He shook his head numbly. Sweat glistened on his face. "If I didn't know better, I'd have thought it were a bomb." He mopped his forehead. "I was just walking by. One second everything was normal, next second the whole house just... _exploded_."

As if on cue, a massive fireball erupted from the second story window. Semi-melted glass rained down over the yard. Georgia curled her fingers around Darius' shirt. Her chest constricted. "And you're sure J was in there?"

The man nodded grimly. He glanced at Darius, and lowered his voice. "Heard her scream. Didn't go on long, but still..." he shuddered. "I'll be waking up to that sound the rest of my life. Two tours in Desert Storm, never heard nobody scream like that."

The wail of sirens finally started in the distance. Georgia turned back to Darius. Emptiness yawned behind his eyes. He stepped away from her without a sound. Reluctantly, she let his shirt slip through her fingers.

He continued backing up, eyes glued to the increasingly skeletal remains of the house. Then abruptly, he spun on his heel and started back through the crowd.

Georgia took one last look at the house, then trotted after him. "Darius?"

He didn't answer, didn't slow until he reached Dolores. He swung a leg over the bike and lowered himself onto the saddle. "Take me back to the office."

His voice was raw. Georgia winced, nodded. "Yeah. Of course." She paused.

Darius stared straight ahead, eyes unseeing. Georgia hesitated a moment longer, then mounted the saddle in front of him. Without another word, she kicked up the stand and started the engine. She edged away from the curb and motored carefully up the street. The instant they cleared the crowd, she opened up the throttle.

Within minutes, Hunters Point disappeared into the rearview mirrors.

† † †

The street in front of The Procyon was deserted when they pulled up.

Georgia parked and started to take off her helmet. With a dull pang, she remembered she'd left it on J's kitchen table. Her throat closed.

The bike shifted as Darius dismounted. Georgia turned around. He didn't look at her.

She swallowed hard. "Darius."

No answer.

She tried again. "I'm so sorry. About J. She was—"

"I know what she was." He weaved slightly, but didn't make a move to leave. A few minutes dragged by. Neither of them spoke.

Georgia wrapped her arms around herself. "So, what's our next move?"

The second the question left her lips, she wanted to take it back. Darius' mouth twisted. "We don't have a next move."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?" Her throat closed again. This time, it was pure panic.

He finally looked up. Instantly, she wished he hadn't. "Thing is, I've had the entire ride back here to think." His face turned to stone. "And I realized something."

There was a look in his eyes she didn't like. A chill coursed through her.

"The way you always told it, your beef with the witches wasn't your fault. But that's not true, is it?" His expression darkened. "They're not really afraid of you because of your mom, or because you're a black witch, are they? They're afraid of you because of _this_."

Georgia didn't answer.

His expression turned downright dangerous. "You've used death magic before tonight."

He seemed to be daring her to lie to him, but that was no longer an option. Her stomach soured. "Yes."

He seemed surprised by her honesty. His eyes narrowed. His jaw flexed. "Could your death magic have been responsible for J's death?"

Georgia felt the blood drain from her face. She opened her mouth to deny it, then stopped. She'd told him herself, magic like that came at a price. That price wasn't negotiable. What if she'd miscalculated her sacrifice? What if she'd used more power than she'd paid for?

What if the universe had stepped in and squared the debt?

Darius was still waiting. Georgia stared at him mutely.

He took a threatening step forward. "Answer me, witch!"

She flinched back. For a moment, she didn't remember how to speak. She had to swallow twice before the word she was looking for came out. "Yes." She forced herself to meet his eyes. "It's possible."

His face turned gray. "It's _possible_?"

She couldn't stomach the way he was staring at her. Georgia looked away. For years, she'd been waiting for the threefold law, for karma, for some form of cosmic justice to rear up and strike her down. She'd been so pitifully afraid of what that retribution might look like.

Now the hammer had fallen, and reality was infinitely worse than anything she had imagined.

She closed her eyes. "I told you to be afraid of me."

"Afraid of you?" Darius' voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "I'm not afraid of you."

Georgia opened her eyes again. "You're not?"

"No, Georgia." Her name rolled smoothly off his tongue. "Not afraid. _Furious_."

His words cut clean to the bone. Georgia reeled.

Darius took another step forward. "What you did was stupid. It was reckless." He brought his face down to hers. "And it cost a good woman her life."

Georgia choked. "I didn't mean for that to happen! I was trying to save—"

"Stop!" He jerked back like she'd burned him. "Just...stop. Don't you dare tell me you did this for _me_. Jesus Christ, would you really make me live with that?"

Georgia dropped her gaze. Darius muttered something under his breath. A hole opened up in her chest. "What did you say?"

"I said this was a mistake."

The hole widened into a chasm. Georgia's eyes flew back to his.

His expression was glacial. "All of it. Me, you, us. It was a huge mistake. A costly mistake. And I'm not going to make it again."

She stared at him, searched his face for...something. Anything. Any trace of the warmth she'd seen there before. It was no use. All she could find now was pain, and worse still, a numb acceptance. Her heart shriveled.

"I see." She ducked her head so he wouldn't see the tears spring to her eyes. "So this is it, then. I'll send you a check for your time and expenses." Fuck, she was going to die. She tried to put it out of her mind.

A couple excruciating seconds ticked by, then he spoke. "Georgia."

She almost thought she recognized something in his voice. She quickly dismissed it. The Darius she knew was gone. He'd died in that fire. The faster she got that through her head, the faster she could figure out just what the fuck she was going to do now.

Acid burned her stomach. It had been stupid to rely on someone this much. Sloppy. Maybe what was happening was for the best. Hell, maybe it had been inevitable.

She leaned forward and wrapped her hands around the handlebars. "So long, deCompostela."

" _Georgia_."

She gunned the engine, and pealed away from the curb without looking back.

† † †

Thank god he still had vodka in his freezer.

Darius trudged out of his kitchenette, a glass in one hand, a bottle of Absolut in the other. A trail of clothes littered the studio, starting at the front door and ending next to his bed. He stepped over his jeans, his undershirt, his sweater. Then he came to his jacket. Without thinking, he reached down and swiped it up.

Mistake. The smell of smoke still clung to the burnished leather. There was another scent, too, one decidedly more delicate. Darius brought it to his face. Breathed.

All of a sudden, he felt like he was suffocating. He flung the jacket back to the floor and continued to his wingback chair. He sat down heavily, made a face. It wasn't comfortable tonight like it usually was, or maybe he was just too wound up to enjoy it.

He'd walked home from the office, hoping some exercise would take the edge off his raging emotions. It hadn't. If anything, it had done the opposite. The entire way, a single phrase had gone round and round in his head.

J's dead.

J's dead.

J's dead.

He should feel something. Anything. But he didn't. There had been the initial shock, of course. The gripping pain that immediately followed. But now?

Now he just felt tired.

Darius closed his eyes. Maybe all this had simply been one long, bad dream. He'd never gone to Hunters Point. The Conjure House was still in the same place it had always been. J was waking up right now, heading down to the kitchen in her oversized bathrobe, putting a pot of coffee on.

Darius opened his eyes again. The vodka bottle was sweating fat beads of water onto his side table. He grabbed it, yanked out the cork with his teeth and poured himself a shot. The glass looked smaller than he remembered. Too small. He tossed his shot back, hesitated, then chased it with a quick drag from the bottle.

J's dead.

He gave himself a solid shake. It wasn't real. None of it had been real. He hadn't seen Dante. Hellhounds didn't exist. He didn't have bruises setting in all over his body.

He hadn't made love to Georgia Clare.

Darius poured himself another shot and gulped it back, embraced the burn that raced down his throat. He didn't want to think about her. He didn't want to think about the way she tasted. He didn't want to think about her wild hair in his hand. He didn't want to think about how goddamn perfect it felt being inside her.

He poured his next shot. Vodka sloshed over the sides of the glass. He paused and stared at the icy liquid. He should slow down. At this rate, he was going to be blackout drunk by the time the sun came up. What would J say if she could see him?

J's dead.

He set aside the glass with a clatter, raised the bottle to his lips and took a long, heavy pull.

Before he knew it, the sky began to dim. Darius sat limply in his chair, the bottle noticeably lighter in his hand. Pain still rode in his chest, but it was different now. The sharper edges had dulled. It would have been a blissful sensation, except for the harsh buzzing that had invaded his skull.

Something flickered in front of the Zenith. Darius blinked.

The My Little Pony's t-shirt materialized first. Darius pressed deeper into his chair. Panic quickened in his gut. This couldn't be happening. He was shielding...wasn't he? He glanced down the bottle, winced. It was nearly empty.

Madison's face slowly took shape. The darkness where her eyes should have been wavered, almost like she was watching him. Her perfect pigtails shimmered under the first rays of morning sunlight.

A sudden flash of anger overtook him. Weren't there any other mediums in this goddamn city? He was balanced on the edge of a fucking cliff. Was it too much to ask to just be left the fuck alone?

The tiny spirit cocked her head, waited.

Darius exploded. "What the hell do you want from me?" The buzzing in his head was becoming unbearable. He leaned forward. " _I can't help you_. Don't you fucking get that?"

He didn't realize he'd grabbed his glass off the side table until it crashed against the phonograph. Madison shrank back, her small face pinched and frightened. Darius surged to his feet, staggered as the room reeled around him.

"Get out! _GET OUT_!"

Without a word, Madison blinked out.

A couple seconds ticked by before it clicked that he was actually alone. Darius swayed. The buzzing in his head was gone, replaced by a dull, throbbing pain. His stomach felt like it was on fire.

Fire.

What had J's last moments been like? The residual energy surrounding the house had been nothing short of horrific. Dread. Terror. Pain. The man outside had heard her scream. She'd been alive when she burned.

Darius' eyes locked on the framed picture on top of the Zenith. J's frozen face smiled back at him. He started to take another drink. His hand shook. Anguish welled inside him.

He hurled the bottle at the phonograph, sank back into his chair, and cried.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

#

Inspector Chelsea Chandler had shit timing.

Georgia had briefly contemplated ignoring the message requesting her presence at the Hall of Justice. In the end, she'd opted to suck it up and go. If the tone of Inspector Chandler's voice was any indication, the detective was just aching for an excuse to haul her in with cuffs slapped around her wrists.

Seated in a windowless room in front of a table that was bolted to the floor, she wished she'd taken her chances and stayed in bed.

Inspector Chandler hadn't even shown up yet. Georgia scowled. She'd seen enough Law & Order reruns to know what was going on. She was supposed to sit in here and stew. When whichever suit in charge decided she'd festered enough, someone would waltz in and listen sympathetically while she confessed all her deepest, darkest secrets.

Like hell.

She was definitely festering, but not in the way they were probably banking on. Georgia swallowed hard. She'd deleted Darius' number from her phone before coming into the station. Now the gaping hole in her chest was threatening to swallow her.

She resisted the urge to rest her head on the table. He'd really had her going. For a while there, she'd almost thought...what, exactly? She'd had the happily-ever-after drummed out of her a long time ago. What the fuck had she thought would happen?

What she wouldn't give to be able to talk to Lena about this shit. Of all the times for her to go on a goddamn sex vacation. At this very moment, she was probably twisted like a pretzel around her new cop boyfriend.

The door opened, and Inspector Chandler swept in. She was wearing what looked like the same functional non-uniform as the last time Georgia had seen her. Frizzy black corkscrews poked out of her ponytail at odd intervals, and her eyes looked tired. A coffee-stained manila folder was tucked under her arm.

She tossed it onto the table, hauled out the chair opposite Georgia, and sat. "I don't have time for games, Ms. Clare. Start talking."

Georgia drew a blank. "Excuse me?"

The inspector's expression was unreadable. "Where were you last night?"

An image of Darius' naked body flashed through her mind. Her chest ached. Georgia considered lying, then sank back in her chair. "Hunters Point."

Chandler arched an eyebrow. "Seems a little out of the way. What were you doing there?"

Georgia thought about J. The ache in her chest intensified. "Visiting a friend."

"Can this friend verify your whereabouts?"

A lump formed in her throat. "No."

Chandler's expression darkened. "I don't think you realize the kind of trouble you're in. You see, we've been asking around, speaking to the friends and relatives of the Forest Hill victims. No one seems to have a very high opinion of you."

Of course they didn't. Georgia shifted. Nervous tension rolled in her stomach. "Yeah. What of it?"

Chandler opened the folder and started flipping through what looked like interview notes. She read aloud as she went. "Hot-tempered. Antisocial. Outcast. Oh, and here's my personal favorite: _total fucking sociopath_." She shut the folder again and looked up. "Those were just some of the things people had to say about you."

Georgia crossed her arms. "Are you going somewhere with this?"

"There's a psychological profile for people who commit mass murder." Chandler rested her hands on top of the folder. "From where I'm sitting, you fit it to a tee."

The air flooded from her lungs. Georgia struggled to breathe. "Are you saying I'm a suspect?"

Chandler leaned forward. Her brown eyes hardened into stone. "No, Ms. Clare. I'm saying you're _the_ suspect." She leaned back again. "And then there's the other massacre."

Georgia's heart stopped. "What?"

Chandler blew out a breath. "I told you, no games. We know you were responsible for Forest Hill. We have reason to believe you're responsible for what happened in Cow Hollow last night." She paused. "We also know you had an accomplice."

Georgia struggled to keep up. "I'm—what? Cow Hollow? What accomplice? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You really didn't think we'd find out, did you?" Chandler shook her head. "Come on, Georgia. Just tell me where the other survivor is."

Georgia balked. "Other survivor? That wasn't in—" She clapped her mouth shut.

"In what? The file you stole?" Chandler's lips twisted. "No, it wouldn't be. The medical examiner just finished sorting through and identifying the remains. He sent his report over yesterday. Apparently, we have a body missing."

Georgia stared.

Chandler shifted in her chair and crossed her legs. "I must say, I'm a little disappointed in you. That list of names you gave us was a sloppy mistake. We might never have realized what was going on if you hadn't tried to make us think she was dead."

Georgia's head was reeling. She shook herself. It didn't help. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. No one could have survived that...that..." She shuddered. "Whatever you think you know, you're wrong. It's not possible."

Impatience flashed in Chandler's eyes. "Come off it, Georgia. It's over. If you cooperate with me now, maybe we can work out some kind of deal. Say, life in prison."

This wasn't real. This couldn't be happening. "As opposed to what?"

Chandler held her gaze. "The death penalty."

Georgia's stomach hit the floor. She reminded herself to breathe. "I can't confess to something I didn't do."

Chandler surged to her feet and stalked around the table. She bent down until their noses nearly touched. "Damn it, Ms. Clare, where is Ellen Granch?"

_Ellen's alive._ Georgia caught her breath. Her pulse skyrocketed. Almost immediately, something knotted in her gut. Ellen was alive? Emotions warred inside her. It was impossible, unless...

She blanked her face and met Chandler's eyes. "Am I under arrest?"

Chandler's lips thinned. She straightened stiffly. "Not at the moment."

Georgia rose to her feet. "Then I'm leaving."

She waited for the other woman to stop her. Chandler didn't move.

Georgia continued to the door, paused, and spoke over her shoulder. "Don't come near me again unless you have a warrant."

† † †

She didn't have the convenience of a stolen file to work with this time. Fortunately for her, news of the previous night's bloodbath was splashed across the front page of every newspaper in town.

Georgia hovered in front of a sidewalk rack set up near the corner of Market Street. After a few minutes' debate, she made her selection. She slipped the vendor a few bills, and left with a paper bearing the headline "Carnage In Cow Hollow".

She skimmed the article while she walked back to where she'd parked. It was predictably vague. Number of victims, unclear. Motive for killings, unclear. Police working every possible lead.

Georgia snorted. "Sure they are," she muttered.

She had to do something. That much, at least, she'd already decided. Exactly what was still a blur. She rubbed a shaky hand over her face.

Ellen's alive.

What the hell was the matter with her? She should be relieved. Overjoyed. Hell, she should be dancing in the goddamn streets. Instead, all she could focus on was the sick feeling that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

She shook herself. She wasn't ready to think about that. Not yet. Georgia forced her focus back to the article. She was about halfway through when something caught her eye:

The killings occurred at a local landmark. The Octagon House has been the headquarters of The National Society of Colonial Dames in California since its renovation in 1952. It is unknown whether chapter president Cordelia Trimble was among the slain.

_Cordelia Trimble._ Georgia frowned. How did she know that name? She wracked her brain. Suddenly, she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone bumped into her. She murmured an apology and quickly moved to the side.

Cordelia Trimble was a witch.

Any residual doubt over whether Cow Hollow and Forest Hill might be connected promptly evaporated. Georgia tightened her jaw. So she wasn't ready to think about Ellen. In the meantime, she sure as hell could think about this.

She read the article again, this time committed each detail to memory. She finished, pulled out her phone and typed the address of the house into her GPS. It was a little more than ten minutes away.

She double-timed it back to the public lot. A few minutes later, she was following her phone's directions towards Cow Hollow. A little more than ten minutes after that, she found herself on a narrow, nondescript street lined with apartment buildings.

The Octagon House was exactly what it sounded like: a powder-blue, eight-sided structure with two stories and a cupola perched on top. The house itself was smaller than she'd expected, but the shaded gardens attached took up almost an entire block. A white picket fence stretched around the perimeter. Apartments and high-rises crowded in on all sides.

Georgia rolled around the corner, eased up on the throttle and maneuvered into an open spot on the curb. She dismounted slowly, scanning the surrounding street as she went. Except for a few stray gawkers, everything appeared normal.

She started up the sidewalk towards the entrance. There, evidence of the previous night's events still lingered. A yellow crime scene tape was stretched across a gap in the fence. Another tape was stretched across the door.

The reality of the situation came crashing down on her. What the hell was she doing? She wasn't a detective. She had no idea what she was looking for. And what if a cop car rolled up and caught her loitering? She could just hear Chelsea Chandler's smug voice: _Returning to the scene of the crime, Ms. Clare?_ No, if she was any kind of smart, she'd turn around and leave now.

Georgia winced. And then what? Chandler was on the warpath. Darius was gone. She was right back where she'd started: alone. She swallowed hard.

If anyone was going to prove her innocence in all this, it was going to have to be her.

Right. First things first. She took a deep breath and looked around. Except for the crime scene tape, nothing seemed out of place. Damn it, Law & Order always made this look so easy. Too bad real life didn't wrap up in a neat little bow after forty-eight minutes.

Georgia swallowed the frustrated noise that rose up the back of her throat. She closed her eyes, and took another deep breath. _What would Darius do?_

She opened her eyes again and approached the entrance. After a quick glance around, she ducked under the crime scene tape. No one shouted at her, ordered her to get back. She glanced around again, then hopped the fence into the garden.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't _quite_ what Darius would do.

She landed with a soft crunch on a blanket of decorative mulch. The garden was laid out in a small, tidy square, dotted with small trees and lush clusters of Lily-of-the-Nile. Neatly-trimmed boxwoods formed a low, labyrinthine maze throughout.

Georgia straightened, and started down a mulched path. She still wasn't sure what she was expecting to find. She looked up at the cupola. Pale morning sunlight glinted off the clean glass panes.

Doubt nagged at her. If the hellhound really had been here, wouldn't it have left some trace? The house in Forest Hill had been devastated. Here, she wouldn't have guessed anything had happened. No broken windows. No scratched paint. Not so much as a leaf out of place.

Darius' voice echoed in her head: _you'll know it when you see it_.

Georgia sighed, and continued around a hedge. She scanned the path in front of her, the small patch of lawn nestled against the side of the house...

Wait.

There was something in that lawn. She drew closer, then stopped short. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

Imprinted in the ground, surrounded by charred blades of grass, was a massive paw print.

† † †

Nothing like digging around in the dirt to work off a hangover.

The rooftop garden at St. Jude's was deserted. Darius knelt beside one of the planter boxes, pulling weeds. He'd lost track of how long he'd been there. Long enough for his knees to be sore and his hands sweaty inside his work gloves. The rough material of his t-shirt stuck to his back.

He smiled grimly. Corporal penance.

He leaned forward, ignoring the burn in his knees, and stripped a budding dandelion from the soil. How the hell did planter boxes get so many weeds? Wasn't that the whole point of the goddamn planter box? Another cheerful yellow dandelion winked up at him. Darius pulled it out, too, dug deep to extract every thready bit of root he could find.

The mid-afternoon sun was hot on the back of his neck. His mouth was parched. Considering how much he'd had to drink, however, his head wasn't hurting nearly as badly as it should be.

Maybe he was still drunk.

Darius sank back on his heels. Instantly, the world around him started to spin. He reached forward and clasped the edge of the planter box, forced breath after deep breath until everything stopped moving. He winced.

Definitely still drunk.

At least the grief wasn't as all-consuming now. Instead of feeling it in every cell in his body, it seemed to have staked out real estate just behind his ribs. Darius leaned forward again. He pulled out a young stalk of what looked like clover, paused and tamped down the dirt around one of his sunflower seedlings.

An image of the sunflower wallpaper in J's kitchen popped into his head. He stopped. Pain flared in his chest.

Dear god, he should have protected her. The woman had meant more to him than his own mother, his own blood, and he had let her down in the worst way possible. There had to be something he could have done, some other road he could have taken.

Darius crushed the clover in his gloved fist. He shouldn't have left her alone. He should never have let Jervais and the crew take him. He should have fought. Should have stayed. If he had, Georgia wouldn't have had to come for him. She wouldn't have had to use the death magic.

Darius shivered. It didn't take an expert to know power like that left a mark. Now that mark was on him. He could feel it; putrefaction and rot whispering over his skin, burrowing deep into what was left of his soul. Terrifying. Illicit.

Thrilling.

On the other side of the planter box, he heard the door to the roof swing open. A familiar voice called out, "Darius?"

Darius didn't answer. He shouldn't have come back here. Not after the way he and Father Gregory had left things the last time. He put his head down and resumed weeding. The unmistakable sound of footsteps drew closer and closer.

The priest's ruddy face appeared above the wall of flowers. He took in Darius and the pile of wilting vegetation beside him. "Sister Paul told me you were up here. She told me what happened." His forehead furrowed. "I am truly sorry, my son."

Darius couldn't help the sneer that twisted his mouth. "Don't tell me you're going soft now, Father. What was it you always taught me? 'What's one witch, more or less?'"

Father Gregory's expression didn't change. "Her loss matters to you. Therefore, it matters to me."

Darius sagged. The bluster poured out of him like air from a deflating balloon. "I'm sorry. Don't know what's wrong with me."

"You're grieving." Father Gregory came around the side of the planter. He folded his hands in front of him. "Anger is part of it. So are plenty of other things. It's important you let yourself feel what you feel."

Darius looked down. His thoughts turned to Georgia. He should never have gone anywhere near her. From the moment she'd come into the office, he'd known she was bad news. The instant he'd seen magic running through her aura, he should have thrown her out on her leathers.

But he hadn't. And now J was dead.

"Feel what I feel?" He slowly looked up again. His throat tightened. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

Father Gregory studied him for a moment. Then his eyes softened. He glanced at the sky. "Come with me. I don't know about you, but I don't much care to get heat stroke up here."

He held down a hand. Darius grasped it and scrambled to his feet. At the last minute, he reached back and plucked his leather jacket off the ground.

They retreated to the cool, dimly-lit rector's office. Darius folded himself into the same chair he'd sat in before. Father Gregory rummaged around behind the desk, reemerged with two bottles of water. He passed one to Darius, then sat down in the other chair. "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

Darius looked down. "No."

Father Gregory didn't press. They sat in silence until Darius lost track of time. His thoughts drifted backward, past Georgia, past J. Soon, he was remembering things he hadn't thought of in years. Remnants of a life he barely acknowledged anymore.

He looked at Father Gregory. "Why me?"

The priest blinked. "What do you mean?"

Darius shifted in his seat. "When you met me, I was nobody. Just some kid from the projects who was convinced he had dead people talking to him. I know I swore an oath never to mention it again, but..." He moistened his lips, took a deep breath. "The Borromean League. Why did you pick me to join?"

Father Gregory's face stilled. He started to answer. Stopped again. Then he sighed. "I don't know that there's any real—"

"Bullshit." Darius shook his head. "You've never done anything without a reason. So what was it?"

Father Gregory hesitated.

"Tell him."

Darius turned. Standing in the doorway to the office was Sister Paul. Her habit seemed to sharpen the lines of her aging face. She stepped inside and shut the door carefully behind her. When she turned back to them, her gray eyes were even more intense than usual. They locked on the priest.

"It's our fault he has to live looking over his shoulder, Gregory. Tell him." Her tongue traced her thin lips. "He deserves to know."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

#

Darius turned back around. "Know what?"

Father Gregory's mouth worked. "You have to understand. The League has a righteous purpose. We—Sister Paul and I—would never have joined otherwise. They've been doing the Lord's work for over four centuries."

Sister Paul's footsteps advanced further into the small room. "Gregory..."

Father Gregory stood abruptly. He paced for a moment before fixing his eyes on the Sacred Heart painting. "Monsters," he murmured. "Actual, living monsters, walking the earth. Can you even imagine such a thing? I never would have believed it, myself. Not until..." He trailed off.

Sister Paul came around the chairs to stand beside him. She turned to Darius. "You should know the whole story." She laid a hand on Father Gregory's arm. "Back when the Father and I first took our vows, we were assigned to the same parish. St. Ignatius, down near Palm Springs. Neither of us had been there long when there was, well, an incident."

Darius raised his eyebrows. He'd never heard this before. "What kind of incident?"

A shadow came over Sister Paul's face. "Deaths. Dozens of them, over the course of almost two weeks. The local authorities said it was some kind of wild animal. We didn't know what to think."

Darius looked from one of them to the other. He didn't speak.

Father Gregory drew a deep breath. "Sister Paul and I had become...quite close. We were taking a walk in the chapel garden after Vespers one evening when we saw it."

Darius leaned forward. "What?"

Sister Paul's knuckles whitened on Father Gregory's arm. "A werewolf. At least, that's what we believe now. At the time we had no idea. One minute it was a wolf, the next it was a man." She shuddered. "It was horrible. We realized immediately it must have been responsible for the attacks on our church."

Darius drew his brows together. "Did you actually see it attack anyone?"

"We didn't have to." Father Gregory's voice was harsh. "The creature was an abomination. Born of the Devil. It was our duty before God to strike it down. Unfortunately, we didn't know how. Not then, anyway."

Darius forced himself to stay still. "So what happened?"

"Venators," Sister Paul said softly. "Two of them. I don't know how they found out about the creature, but they arrived the next day. They tracked it down and killed it. Afterwards, they came to us. They told us they were from a secret sect called The Borromean League, formed by the Church to ensure man's stewardship over the earth."

Darius nodded. "I remember the mandate."

A smile ghosted over Sister Paul's lips. "Yes, I'm sure you do. You always were a promising student." She drew her shoulders a little straighter. "They told us the truth: that monsters were real, and that they had been trained to handle them. They invited us to join The League; Father Gregory and myself. We accepted, and for many years, we did the Lord's work in secret."

He knew what that work entailed. All too well. Darius' muscles felt tight. "And you never had reservations."

"Of course we did." The nun's eyes clouded. "But the righteous path is rarely the easy one. We were called to be the dark servants of God. Whatever we have done," she swallowed hard, "is the cross we were given to bear."

Darius sat back heavily. "So what does all this have to do with me? You still haven't said why you chose me."

"Because you were _known_." Father Gregory finally turned, and looked him in the eyes. "How do you think we found out about you in the first place? The League had been watching you. They sent me to that cookout to meet you, to assess whether or not your soul could be saved."

Darius' blood chilled. It took a moment before he could speak. "And if it couldn't?"

"You know the protocol." Father Gregory's gaze turned hollow. "It would have been difficult. You were only a child, after all. But we were venators by then. That was our job. It would hardly have been the first time."

Darius stared. He had known the people in front of him what felt like his entire life, but in that moment, he didn't recognize them at all. "Let me get this straight. You knew The League had me in their crosshairs, so you chose me, trained me—"

"To protect you." Father Gregory nodded. "I persuaded the others your...affliction...could be treated. That with intensive prayer and guidance, we could rehabilitate you. Not all of them were convinced, but enough of them were." He lifted his chin. "When I looked into your eyes that day, the Lord granted me a glimpse of your soul. It was worth saving."

Darius' throat tightened. "Are you sure about that?" He squeezed his eyes shut. J's face was the first thing he saw. He opened his eyes again and shook his head. "I didn't want this. Any of it. I never asked to be initiated into some secret society. You said it yourself, I was only a kid."

Father Gregory's filmy eyes were far too perceptive. "But it's more than that, isn't it? When we found you, you were trying your hardest to pretend you were just like everyone else. The League forced you to face who you were. What you were." He cocked his head. "I don't think you've ever forgiven us for that."

Darius locked his jaw. It was true, of course. He'd spent his life running, if not from The League, then from himself. In the end, he could never run fast enough. No matter how much he isolated himself, how hard he fought to the contrary, everyone around him just kept getting hurt.

A horrifying realization dawned on him. He'd been so angry with Georgia, but what if what had happened wasn't her fault? _He_ was the one who'd taken her case. _He_ was the one who'd gone to Hunters Point. _He_ was the one she'd been trying to save that god-awful night.

Darius looked from Father Gregory to Sister Paul. The concern and understanding on their faces shredded his already raw insides. "What's wrong with me?" he whispered. His voice cracked. "I don't know what to do anymore."

Sister Paul made a soothing noise deep in her throat. "Dear boy."

Father Gregory laid a hand on his shoulder. "Sometimes life knocks us to our knees." His hand tightened briefly. "But that's a damn good position to pray from."

† † †

She couldn't avoid this forever.

San Francisco State's Humanities department was buried in a snarl of roundabouts, cul-de-sacs, and one-way side streets. The sun was well into its descent, and the last dying rays glistened off the windows of the imposing, cream-colored building. A few students lingered outside, chatting.

Georgia stood off to the side and attempted to muster her courage. She'd deliberately waited for a time when most of the building's occupants would be gone. If she didn't hurry up, however, it was going to close for the night. Whatever answers she thought she might find would be locked in until morning.

She hesitated. She'd been so sure of her plan on the ride over, but now that she was here, she was fast losing her nerve. Her stomach churned. The idea that Ellen Granch might have something to do with Forest Hill and Cow Hollow was downright ludicrous. Wasn't it? If Chandler was right and Ellen really was alive, there had to be some other explanation.

Georgia squared her shoulders. Of course there was, and she was going to find it. Finally secure in her purpose, she marched through the glass doors and into the building.

The plaque bearing Ellen's name still hung outside the door to her office. Georgia swallowed hard. Hope fluttered in her chest. If the plaque was still there, maybe that meant no one had gone into the office yet.

She tested the knob. Locked. No matter. She firmed her hand around it and summoned a bit of magic into her palm. A quick glance up and down the hallway confirmed she was alone. She focused back on the doorknob. " _Apertum_."

Metal groaned inside the lock. Georgia tried the knob again.

Nothing.

She hissed a breath through her teeth. Ellen must have warded the office. A warm ache suffused her chest. "Of course you did, you clever bitch," she muttered softly.

Time for Plan B. Georgia reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out her wallet. Another glance up and down the hallway, then she slipped a credit card from one of the folds. She wedged it into the narrow crevice between the door and the wall, slid it down until she came to the bolt. She jimmied the plastic back and forth. Something clicked.

This time when she tried the knob, it turned smoothly.

Georgia smirked. What would Darius say if he could see her now? The instant the thought crossed her mind, her chest hollowed. She ducked her head and opened the door.

A gust of air rushed out. The office smelled musty and a little sweet; like incense and old books. Just underneath that was the faint aroma of lily-of-the-valley. Georgia quickly ducked inside, shut the door behind her. The fading sun slanted through a single window on the opposite wall, providing just enough light to see by.

Georgia took a deep breath and headed for the desk. She turned on the computer, glanced around while she waited for it to boot up. Various esoteric artifacts packed every available inch of surface space: fearsome tribal masks, an assortment of ceremonial-looking daggers, what appeared to be a voodoo doll. A strand of wooden beads was wound around its body.

She shivered, and turned her attention back to the desk. Papers were still strewn over the top, as though Ellen had left in the middle of grading. A few framed photos sat in front of the computer monitor. Mostly she didn't recognize the faces in them; former students, most likely.

A couple, however, contained someone familiar: handsome, strong-boned face, long red hair, murky green eyes. Georgia's throat closed.

She'd never had the chance to tell Ellen what she'd meant to her. How highly she'd thought of her. Georgia mentally backtracked. No, that wasn't true. She'd had plenty of chances; she'd simply never taken any of them.

Wasn't that just the story of her life.

Tears pricked at her eyes. She turned the photo of Ellen face-down, and yanked open one of the desk drawers. She could barely see as she rummaged through the pens and bric-a-brac inside. Nothing of interest jumped out at her. She closed the drawer again, opened the one below it. Nothing in that one, either.

This was pointless. There was nothing here. Of course there wasn't. Ellen hadn't been hiding anything. Georgia opened the last drawer. Her thoughts raced. Maybe the medical examiner had made a mistake. Maybe there was no body missing, after all. Maybe...

She stopped. Stilled.

Peering up at her from the drawer was another photograph. Georgia picked it up. It was markedly different from the others on the desk. The lighting was soft, the focus closer, more intimate. It contained only two women. One of them was Ellen, a secretive smile on her face, the tip of her nose buried in the other woman's wispy blonde hair.

"Hello there." Georgia stared at the other woman's face. "I know you."

Abigail Davis.

Well, this was just...what? What the hell was she looking at? Abbie had mentioned she went to San Francisco State. Of course it was plausible she and Ellen might have met. Georgia squinted at the photo in the dying light. It didn't look like a typical picture of professor and student. If she didn't know better, she'd almost think...

An unexpected spark of jealousy zipped through her. Georgia tossed the photo back where she'd found it. What did she care if Ellen had been seeing someone? She'd never thought of her as anything more than a trusted friend. Not once.

Still, the matching blissful expressions in the picture rankled. There'd been a time when Ellen was the closest friend she had. Maybe she'd convinced herself vice-versa was true as well. The realization that there had been someone else, someone even closer...

Teeth clenched, Georgia kicked the drawer shut. She turned back to the computer and jiggled the mouse. The monitor woke up. No security screen, thank god. She pulled up the internet browser, ignoring the flash of guilt that pricked at her.

I'm doing this for Ellen.

After a moment's debate, she clicked on the Bookmarks tab. Sure enough, Ellen's email was saved at the top of the list. Georgia clicked on the link, drummed her nails on the desk while the page loaded.

Shit. Was she really about to break into someone's email? She didn't know the first thing about hacking. She wracked her brain for every movie and television reference she could think of. Hadn't Sandra Bullock played a hacker once? How had she done it?

Before she could dwell on the fact that she was using a nineties B-list thriller as a reference point, the page finished loading. Ellen's username automatically popped into the login box. Her password popped into the box below it.

Georgia blinked. "Holy shit." Thank god for auto-fill. She hit the _enter_ button on the keyboard.

Ellen's inbox flashed onscreen. Georgia scanned down the list of messages. She grabbed the mouse and scrolled down, kept scrolling. Work, work, spam, work...

Well, here was something.

Georgia clicked on a message titled "Lone Mountain Rental Confirmation." An email popped up. She read the first couple lines:

Thank you for using Airbnb! From this point forward, your point of contact will be the owners of the property you have rented...

Georgia stared at the screen. The rest of the words blurred together. She blinked hard, and looked at the dates on the rental agreement.

The contract began the day after the Forest Hill massacre.

Her head started to ache. She pinched the bridge of her nose. _Ellen had nothing to do with this. Ellen had nothing to do with this._ She repeated the words to herself over and over again. This time, they didn't quite ease the sickening hole in her belly.

Georgia whipped out her cell and typed the address of the rental into her GPS. There was only one way she could think of to find out what the hell was going on.

She would have to visit the house in Lone Mountain herself.

† † †

The GPS directions took her to a house—no, a _mansion_ —directly behind Golden Gate Park.

Georgia parked a few blocks away, and covered the remaining distance on foot. She cased the house from the opposite corner. It was a gorgeous, flat-roofed Italianate. Massive columns encased the porch, supporting a small-but-ornate balcony overhead. The front yard was crowded with shrubbery; carefully groomed, from what she could make out. The house's white façade seemed to glow in the moonlight.

A stately wrought-iron fence surrounded the property. Georgia studied it a moment longer, then trotted across the street. Evenly spaced concrete posts broke up the line of the fence. She planted her boot on one, grasped the rounded top and vaulted over the dangerously sharp decorative spear points.

She landed in a crouch on the other side, strained her ears for a change in the night sounds around her. Nothing. Georgia released a quiet breath and stood. Still nothing. Moving on her tip-toes, she started her inspection of the house.

By all appearances it was empty, and had been for a while. The windows were dark. She could dimly make out a pile of newspapers outside the front gate. Georgia crept to the outermost edge of the fence and peered up at the second story windows.

Empty.

This was ridiculous. So Ellen had arranged to rent this place. Obviously, she had never showed up. Georgia scowled. It was getting late, and all she had to show for her day was a pounding headache and a dwindling tank of gas. She should go home. Pour herself a drink. Find out if her favorite Indian food place would deliver to her in prison.

In the window next to the balcony, a light turned on.

Georgia's mouth went dry. That same instant, a breeze kicked up. Her skin pebbled underneath her jacket. Something was wrong here. Very wrong. She could feel it like a bolt of electricity to her core. Her hair frizzed up and danced around her face. The sensitive flesh between her legs started to tingle. Her blood quickened in her veins.

Only one thing had ever made her feel like this. Dread began to pulse in time to her galloping heartbeat.

Before she knew it, she had hauled herself back over the fence and was tearing down the street towards Dolores at a dead sprint. She leaped into the saddle and gunned the engine. The six cylinders roared to life. She jammed the Valk into gear and pealed away from the curb.

Georgia raced back towards the heart of the city, shaking hard. Fog hung heavy in the night air. She gulped down oxygen in great, choking gasps. It tasted like ash in her mouth.

_Death magic_. The house had been bursting with it.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

#

Maybe it had been a mistake.

Georgia parked along the curb outside her building and dismounted. Her head was spinning. Her legs felt like wood. Whatever she thought she'd found, she must have been wrong. There was another explanation. There had to be. The Ellen Granch she knew would never be involved in something like this. Not in a million years.

Are you sure about that?

Georgia pulled out her keys and let herself into the building. She gave her head a solid shake. Of course she was sure. Ellen was her friend. Her teacher. She trusted her. At least, she used to.

No. It was much more likely she'd overlooked something. Much more likely she'd made a mistake.

She stepped into the elevator and tightened her jaw. Too many people had already suffered because of her mistakes. She'd be damned if Ellen did, too. She was going to figure all this out. She was going to clear her name. She was going to clear Ellen's name.

No one wanted to help her? Fine. She'd do it alone.

The elevator doors slid open with a ding, and she stepped into the hallway. She was too lost in thought to notice the prickle of magic as she approached her apartment. She unlocked her door, stepped inside. Everything was dark. Georgia shut the door behind her, felt her way blindly into the kitchen and flipped on the light.

"Hello, Georgia."

Georgia jumped. A screech leaped up her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth and stared over the counter into the living room. Kristof was seated primly on her couch. Four burly, grim-faced men stood around him. Something about them struck her. She struggled to put her finger on what it was.

It was no use. By sheer force of will, she schooled her face to a casual expression. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to just drop in on someone without an invitation?"

Kristof didn't move. "Knock, knock."

Georgia rolled her eyes, turned, and opened the refrigerator. "Want a beer?"

"No. Thank you."

She shrugged and pulled out a bottle of Corona for herself. She opened the drawer next to the sink and fished around for her bottle opener. "Been a while since I had so much company. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She found it and popped the lid off the beer. Kristof crossed one leg over the other and laced his hands on his knees. "Cow Hollow."

Georgia froze, the bottle halfway to her lips. Kristof arched an eyebrow. She brought it up the rest of the way and took a swig. It tasted like dishwater.

She set the bottle on the counter a bit too heavily. "Don't know anything about it."

"I think you do." Kristof rose from the couch in a single fluid motion. "I think you know quite a bit about it. More importantly, so does The Council."

Georgia's tongue felt thick. "What?"

"Stop." Kristof shook his head. "It's too late. They've already convened, and they've been talking about you."

"Yeah, them and everyone else," Georgia muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Damn it, Kris." Nerves fluttered in her chest. "I had nothing to do with this. You have to believe me. Just ask—" She stopped. _Just ask Darius_ had been on the tip of her tongue. Unfortunately, she doubted he'd have anything to say in her favor.

Kristof gave her a long, hard look. "It's out of my hands," he said finally. "You've been summoned, Ms. Clare. It's The Council's decree that you appear before them to answer for your crimes."

Georgia couldn't breathe.

Something flashed over Kristof's face. If she didn't know better, she'd almost think it was sympathy. "Maybe you are innocent," he murmured. "deCompostela certainly seemed to think you are. If he's right, the best thing to do is come quietly. Go before The Council and present your case."

Georgia swallowed hard. She glanced at the other men in the room. It suddenly occurred to her what was so striking about them: they all carried themselves like Chelsea Chandler. _Enforcers_. Had to be.

She moistened her lips, at the same time began pulling magic into her hands where they rested below the counter. "Come off it, Kris. Since when did The Council start listening to black witches?"

"It's worth a try." Kristof grimaced. "Either way, I have to take you in. I'm sorry, Georgia."

"Yeah," Georgia breathed. "Me, too."

She snatched up her beer and hurtled it into the living room, at the same time sent the magic she'd been gathering after it. The bottle exploded in a flash of energy. Beer and brown glass rained down over everything.

Kristof dove to the side with a vicious curse. The other men covered their heads with their arms. One of them yelped and clapped a hand over his face. Blood streamed through his fingers.

Georgia didn't allow herself to feel guilty. She seized her keys from the counter and bolted towards the front door. For a brief, glorious second, she thought she might actually make it. Then a hand clamped down on her shoulder. She tried to wrench free. The hand tightened. Pain streaked down her arm.

Desperate, she stomped down hard. The heavy heel of her boot crunched something soft. Whoever had grabbed her let out a grunt. Their grip loosened just enough for her to jerk away. Georgia almost stumbled, quickly caught herself and careened back towards the door.

Kristof stepped in front of it. "Think again, Ms. Clare."

Georgia stopped, whirled. The other men were moving in, circling like sharks who'd scented blood. She circled with them, until she found herself in the living room. Glass crunched under her feet. Panic rose in her throat.

She swallowed it down. Swallowed it again. No way in hell was she going out like this. _Think, you crazy bitch. THINK._

The way to the front door was blocked. So was the narrow hall to her bedroom. Georgia scanned the rest of the room. Her eye fell on the freshly-installed bay window. She groaned inwardly.

Mrs. Ha was going to kill her.

Kristof seemed to realize what she had in mind. He lunged forward, eyes wide. "Wait! Don't—"

Georgia tuned him out. Her vision tunneled. Her magic surged. She focused it into a single, blinding beam, and blasted out the window.

Everything after that seemed to happen in slow-motion. She dodged the first man that came for her, slithered past the reach of the second. She was dimly aware of the others racing forward. Then she turned and dove headfirst through the gaping window.

The frigid night air snapped her back to real-time, and _holy shit_ , she was falling fast. She had just enough time to conjure a thin buffer between her and the ground, then she hit the pavement.

Georgia rolled to her side, wheezed. Broken glass crunched beneath her. The magic had at least kept her bones intact, but by the feel of things, it hadn't done much more than that. She tested out a full breath. A wave of pain washed over her. She winced. Gods, she hoped she hadn't punctured a lung.

She bit the inside of her cheek and groped around near where she'd landed. Finally, her fingers closed around her keys. Georgia hauled herself to her feet, ignored the ominous way her stomach pitched. She looked up at her window.

Kristof was staring down at her. He shook his head, a grim expression on his face. "Don't do this, Georgia," he called. "We're going to find you."

She hurt too much to try for a snappy response. Instead, she limped over to where she'd parked Dolores and lowered herself painfully into the saddle.

She drove away without looking back.

† † †

Darius trudged up the sidewalk towards The Procyon, and tried to ignore the brass band playing a dirge inside his skull.

He'd spent the rest of the night after leaving St. Jude's alternately drinking and feeling sorry for himself. One measly night wasn't even close to enough time to process everything Father Gregory and Sister Paul had laid on him. It was now the following morning, and he still hadn't recovered.

He'd been watched. _Targeted_.

Shit.

Even when he was a kid, he'd known he was different. The other kids at St. George's were all, if not wealthy, then at least from good, Catholic stock. Their collared shirts were always pressed, their shoes always shined. They'd show up on the first day of school with new backpacks and fresh supplies.

And, of course, they hadn't had ghosts trying to talk to them every time they turned around.

A memory wormed its way, unbidden, into his head. In it, he was curled up on the floor in the back stall of the boys' bathroom, his too-gangly body stuffed into his secondhand school uniform. His head was on the verge of splitting open. His stomach was threatening to upturn. Hovering in front of him was a man dressed like a World War II soldier.

He was missing his face.

Darius shuddered, and forcibly put the image out of his mind. He reached the side entrance of The Procyon and shoved the door open a little too forcefully. It whipped inward, slowed with a soft _shushing_ noise just before banging the wall. His vision flared red. He took a deep breath and resisted the urge to turn back and slam it the rest of the way open.

His temper burned itself out as quickly as it had come on. Darius continued towards the elevator and pressed the "up" button. Then he settled in to wait.

Damn, he was tired. Aside from that one brief flash-in-the-pan, he wasn't even angry anymore. Just weighted down with an exhaustion so deep his bones ached. He wasn't in the mood to work, but he couldn't think of anything else to do.

Drink. But he'd done too much of that already.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Darius stepped inside. His blurred reflection glinted from the hammered metal walls. It was a sight he'd been avoiding for the last two days. The bent, haggard-looking figure now mirrored back at him was jarring, to say the least. He hit the button for the third floor and ducked his head, barely noticed when the doors slid shut.

How many messages must he have? Christ, if he had to pretend to care about some batty old lady's missing cat, he was going to punch something. Darius sighed and rubbed his face. In the nearly three years since he and MacMillian had hung out their shingle, he could count on one hand the number of cases that had actually mattered to him.

Hell, less than one hand. He could count the number on one finger.

The elevator settled to a stop. The doors opened. Darius bit back another sigh and trudged into the narrow hallway. Each step felt like hauling himself through quicksand. He locked down the ache in his chest and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. _Come on, Sherlock, you've still got bills to pay. Fake it 'til you make it._

He paused just outside the office door. _Sherlock_. He never used to call himself that.

Suddenly, breathing was just a little bit more painful. Darius swallowed a curse and fished his keys out of his pocket. He started to unlock the door, stopped.

It was already unlocked.

He ran through the short list of people who had a key to the office. MacMillian, except he would still be out of town. The cleaning lady, only it was the wrong day. Aloysius Paul, but he knew better than to barge in uninvited.

That left only one other possibility: someone had broken in. Darius flipped his leather jacket aside and slid his Smith & Wesson M&P .40 from its shoulder holster. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd worn the damn thing, but after Hunters Point, he'd been feeling more paranoid than usual.

The gun notched comfortably in his hand. He eased the door open with the toe of his shoe, quickly brought the barrel up and swept the reception area. Empty. Darius stole to the other door and repeated the exercise. MacMillian's office was empty too.

His eyes locked on the small door to his office. He adjusted his grip on the .40 and crept across the floor. Then he stopped. Listened.

Sure enough, he could hear someone moving around. There was a sound like a hinge squeaking. His hutch. Darius ground his teeth. No one broke into his office and robbed his goddamn hutch.

He pressed his lips together, braced his back leg, and kicked the office door in. The flimsy wood splintered under his boot. The lights were still off, the shades drawn. A wild-haired shadow dove towards the desk.

Darius leveled the .40 and clicked off the safety. "Don't move." He readjusted his stance and felt around the wall for the light switch. It took a couple passes, but he finally flipped it on. "I'm warning you, I—" He stopped dead. "Georgia?"

In that instant, he forgot everything. Why he was still angry, what she'd done, that he didn't want to be anywhere near her. His eyes fastened on the shredded knees of her jeans, and the raw skin that showed through. Scratches marred her face. When she stepped back from his desk, she moved with a pronounced limp.

His mouth turned chalky. "You look like hell."

She snorted, winced. "Thanks."

"I mean it. Jesus Christ, Georgia, you should be in a hospital."

She aimed a painful-looking nod towards his open hutch. "I was about to fix the worst of it when you busted in here." She scowled at his gun. "You could scare a person to death with a stunt like that, you know. Who do you think you are, Frank Bullitt?"

She was here. She was actually here. Darius started to speak. Stopped, then started over. "You broke into my office."

Georgia gimped back over to the hutch. "Yep."

He watched her slow progress without a word. If he was a gentleman, he'd offer to help. Too bad for her he wasn't feeling like much of a gentleman. A chaotic mix of emotions churned inside him. Relief. Anger. Longing. She was the last person in the world he wanted to see. She was the only person in the world he wanted to see.

He willed his face to remain impassive. "What are you doing here?"

She lifted a shoulder, carefully lowered it again. "Honestly, I didn't have much choice. Don't know if you've been paying attention to the news, but there's been another massacre. The cops have it in their heads I was involved."

Darius stared. "That's ridiculous."

"Yeah. I told them that."

"And?"

Her lips twisted. "It didn't have the desired effect." She blew out a sigh, winced again. "It gets better. The Witching Council got wind of the investigation. Don't ask me how. They've settled for a shoot-first-ask-questions-later approach."

Darius' stomach plummeted. "That's not possible. Kristof—"

"—Was waiting for me at my apartment last night, along with half The Council's goon squad." She flicked an invisible speck of dust from her jacket sleeve. "I only got away because they weren't expecting me to jump out a third-story window."

"Their mistake," Darius muttered.

Georgia made a face. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? Believe me, I am. I know how you feel about me. I know you never wanted to see me again."

Darius didn't speak.

The bravado wavered. She swallowed visibly and looked away. "The truth is, I didn't have anywhere else to go."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

#

Damn it.

Darius wavered. He couldn't do this. Not again. He was out. Hell, he was grieving, for god's sake. Georgia Clare was the last person he needed in his life right now.

She was still talking. "I know I don't have any right to ask you for anything. Not after...what happened. I just—"

Christ, he didn't want to hear this. He clicked the safety back on the .40 and returned it to his shoulder holster. Then he started towards his desk. "Catch me up."

A combination of guilt and gratitude washed over Georgia's face. She cleared her throat, cleared it again. "Inspector Chandler called me into the police station again. She's done her due diligence, I'll give her that. She asked around about me. You can guess what people had to say."

Darius changed direction, went and stood in front of the window. "Nothing flattering, I assume." He stared down at the busy street.

"You assume correctly." Behind him, he heard Georgia start to pace. "Anyway, this other massacre? It happened in Cow Hollow, the night J..." she swallowed. "The night of the fire. The cops think it's connected to Forest Hill."

Darius pursed his lips. "Any idea why?"

"No. But they're right."

He turned. "What makes you say that?"

Georgia stopped pacing. "I've been doing a little investigating of my own. The second massacre happened at a known White covenhouse. I paid it a visit, and I found something. A paw print. A _charred_ paw print." She met his eyes. "It was the hellhound, D. I know it was."

Darius hissed through his teeth. "Damn."

"You said it." She started pacing again. "So after I finished there, I went to SFSU. I wanted to have a look around Ellen's office."

"Ellen." He remembered that name. "Ellen Granch? The one who—" he stopped himself, started over. "She was at Forest Hill."

"I thought she was." A shadow flitted across Georgia's face. "She's alive. Well, missing. The inspector dropped that one on me, too. She wasn't with the other remains."

The look on her face threatened to burn a hole in his chest. Darius resisted the urge to cross the room and take her in his arms, instead jammed his hands into his pockets. "So, you went to her office. And what, they just let you in?"

Georgia coughed.

Darius groaned. "Of course they didn't. What was I thinking?" He blew out a breath. "Did you find anything, at least?"

"Sure did." Georgia's lips thinned. "Remember Abigail Davis?"

He had to wrack his brain for a moment. "The co-ed whose aunt got killed?"

"Give the man a cookie." Georgia crossed her arms. "She knows more than she let on. I found a photo of her and Ellen. They knew each other, and by the looks of things, they were more than just friends."

Wasn't that interesting. "What else?"

"There's a house." Georgia started to rub her arms. "A rental; real ritzy place over in Lone Mountain, on the back border of Golden Gate Park. Ellen rented it. Know when the lease started?"

Darius got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Tell me."

"The day after Forest Hill." Georgia let out a short, humorless laugh. "God, I'm such an idiot."

So was he, because in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to go to her, crank her head back and kiss her until everything was okay. He wouldn't, of course. Couldn't. "You don't know that it means anything."

Georgia laughed again. "Except I do." She looked up at him. "I went there. I looked around." She looked away again. "The place was fucking drowning in death magic."

Every cell in his body went still. "You're sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure!" she snapped. "If anyone knows what death magic feels like, it's me." She closed her eyes, breathed deeply. "I'm sorry, I just...I'm still trying to find a way to process all this. Ellen was _everything_ to me, D. If our entire friendship was a lie..." Georgia shook her head, "then I don't know what's real."

Darius brushed off a tiny stab of jealousy. "Sometimes people aren't who you think they are."

He'd meant it to be comforting. Georgia only chuckled darkly. "Unlike me, right?" She glanced at him, but didn't meet his eyes. "I'm exactly who you thought I was."

He didn't know what to say to that. After a long, uncomfortable moment, he changed the subject. "So. Death magic. What's the plan?"

Georgia blinked at him. "You really want to help me?"

"No." He didn't let himself feel guilty when she winced. "But someone needs to sort all this out. The cops might be on to something—hell, this Inspector Chandler even sounds half-smart—but you and I both know they'll only get so far before they hit a wall."

"I think they might have already." Georgia chewed on her lower lip. "It would certainly explain why they're so desperate to believe I'm guilty."

"Exactly." Darius rocked back on his heels. "So think. You're the witch. You've used this stuff before." Georgia winced again. Again, he ignored it. "What's our move?"

Georgia moistened her lips. "There is one thing strong enough to combat death magic, but it's... controversial."

She hesitated. Darius arched an eyebrow. "Well?"

"Thing is, it's, um... That is, it's..." Georgia coughed. "Well, sex magic."

Darius blinked. "What?"

He'd heard wrong. That had to be it. Because for a moment, he was sure she'd said—

"Sex magic."

He could only imagine the look on his face, because hers turned a violent shade of purple. "Not that I'm suggesting we—I mean, I'm not saying you have to..."

He waited for the room to stop spinning. It didn't. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but this sounds like something that requires a partner."

Georgia shrugged, and plucked at the hem of her jacket. "I know some people. I'll ask around, see if someone's willing to—"

"No."

Her eyes flew to his face. Darius locked his jaw. Something fierce and entirely uncivilized rose up inside him. "You're not doing this with some random punk who owes you a favor." He steeled his resolve. "If you do it, you're doing it with me."

Her eyes widened. He waited for her to laugh, cringe, turn him down. But she didn't. She merely studied him, her expression shuttered. After what felt like an eternity, she nodded. "All right."

Something shook loose in his chest. His pulse raced. He turned and made a show of looking out the window. "All right. When does this need to happen?" _Soon. Now. Immediately._

"Tonight."

Her voice sounded huskier than usual. Darius turned back. Georgia's tongue dusted her lip. "That is, I can have the ritual set up by tonight. And who knows when we'll have a chance to, um, do it again."

He nodded. "Tonight, then."

She nodded too. Her cheeks flushed.

The room seemed to darken around him. An instant later, he was moving. He crossed it in two long strides, stopped directly in front of her.

Georgia's eyes widened a fraction. "What—"

Darius caught a handful of her hair in his fist and wrenched her head back. Her lips parted, and he heard the air catch in her throat. She was beautiful—fuck, she was beautiful. Beautiful, and treacherous, and he shouldn't still want her...but he did. He wanted her even more than before.

"Darius—"

"Why are you here?" His voice came out a growl.

Georgia didn't look like she was breathing. "I already...I don't know what you—"

"Not good enough, witch." He tightened his grip on her hair, stopped when she gasped. "For once in your life, try to tell the truth. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me why you really came."

She didn't speak. She only stared up at him, her eyes huge in her pale face. Darius swallowed a groan. Goddamn, he could get lost in those eyes if he wasn't...hell. Who was he kidding? He'd been lost from the moment he saw her.

Georgia didn't speak, but the look she gave him said more than words ever could. Darius released her, his mouth suddenly parched. He retreated all the way back to the window, and stared staunchly down at the street. "What do I need to do?"

"Nothing." Only a slight waver in her voice signaled anything had happened. "I need to get some things. It might take a couple hours." She paused. "I can meet you back here before sundown."

"No." Darius turned. "If Kristof really is after you, you're better off not coming here again. He knows this office. It'll be one of the first places he looks." In truth, it was a miracle he wasn't already banging down the door. Darius kept that part to himself.

Georgia blew out a breath. "Great. Where do I...?"

Darius crossed over to his desk and pulled a small pad of paper from the top drawer. Before he could think better of it, he scratched down his address on the top sheet. He ripped it off and held it out, waited until she took it.

"What's this?"

"My home address." Darius could feel her eyes on the side of his face while he slipped the pad back into the drawer. He didn't look up. "Not many people have it. I know for a fact Kristof doesn't. Once you're done doing...whatever it is you have to do...just meet me there."

Georgia didn't answer. Darius held his breath. He could practically hear the questions stewing in her head. He braced himself for the inevitable interrogation.

It never came. After what felt like an eternity—but what in reality couldn't have been more than a couple minutes—Georgia's footsteps echoed across the office. They paused just in front of the door. The hinges squeaked as it opened, then closed again.

Darius released the breath he'd been holding. When he finally gathered the nerve to look up, he was alone.

† † †

It took under ten minutes to reach the familiar, tree-lined hill in The Mission.

Georgia squeezed up to the curb in between two parked cars and turned off the engine. She tugged off the cheap replacement helmet she'd bought earlier, dismounted.

Her legs were still shaking.

She started up the sidewalk to the teal house. It was nothing. She'd been caught off guard, was all. She'd gone to The Procyon expecting to find Darius. Cool, calm, collected Darius. But he hadn't been there.

She wasn't at all sure she recognized who she'd found instead.

Since when did he carry a gun? She shuddered at the memory of the small, deadly barrel aimed at her chest. The eyes behind it had been cold, almost cruel. He even looked different. The suit was gone, replaced by jeans, heavy boots, a leather jacket that still smelled faintly of smoke. Judging by the heavy shadow on his jaw, it had been a couple days since his last shave.

Georgia cringed. This was going to be a disaster. Granted, she could think of few things hotter than a night of rage-sex with Darius deCompostela, but gods, the man was in fucking free-fall. Even if by some miracle the spell actually worked, the aftermath between them was going to be catastrophic.

Relax. It's not like you're in love with the guy.

Georgia froze mid-step. Where the hell had that come from? Of course she wasn't in love with him. Not by a long shot. Not even close. He was just the guy who'd taken her case when no one else would go near her. The guy who'd let her tag along, who'd punched a hellhound in the face for her, who'd made her feel like less of a freak.

Of course she wasn't in love with him. He was just a guy. Just another guy.

Georgia groaned.

She took the front steps two at a time, and banged on the door significantly harder than was necessary. She didn't have to fester long before footsteps echoed down the hallway inside. A deadbolt slid back. The door opened.

She'd been expecting Helena's abuela, but it was Helena herself who peered out. Her elegant face immediately dropped into a scowl. Georgia had just enough time to wedge her boot in the threshold before she tried to slam the door shut.

The scowl deepened. "Move your foot."

Georgia didn't. "Look, I realize I'm probably the last person you were expecting to see—"

"Damn right." Helena tried to shut the door again.

"Ow! Would you give me a chance to—"

"To what? Explain? Apologize?" Helena's voice ratcheted higher. "Do you know what you did to me? You never bothered to ask. Do you have any clue what happened ten years ago?"

Georgia cringed. "I heard you got into some trouble with The Council."

"Got into some..." Helena shook her head slowly. "Sure, I got into some trouble. Right after I sold you the ingredients for your little death magic experiment. _Experiment_ , you said. You didn't mention anything about actually sacrificing somebody!"

Georgia's stomach soured. "That's not how it went down."

"Whatever." Helena's lips thinned. "All I know is one minute I'm minding my own business, the next minute, your Witching Council is raiding my home. My office. Do you have any idea the damage that did? My business, my reputation—I almost lost everything because of you!"

"Look, I'm—"

Helena moved to shut the door again.

Georgia reached out and caught it. "Listen. I'm sorry about what happened before, okay? I was in a bad place, and I got in over my head. I hurt a lot of people. I'm not proud of that." She took a deep breath. "But don't try to sell me on this 'innocent victim' bullshit. You're the one who chose to deal in illicit magic. You made your bed as sure as I made mine."

Helena narrowed her eyes at Georgia's hand, still planted against the door. "I could curse you for that, you know." She shifted her glare to Georgia's face. "One tiny spell, and I could make all your hair fall out."

Georgia didn't flinch. "And I could turn you into a yappy little dog." She paused. "Not that anyone would notice the difference."

Helena's glower was sharp enough to draw blood. "Why the hell are you even here? What do you want?"

"Your help." Georgia unzipped one of the pockets in her jacket and fished out a slip of crumpled paper. She passed it to Helena. "Spell ingredients."

"You must be joking." Helena's gaze sharpened still further. "Either that or you've lost your mind. Why me? Why not someone else? Someone without our... _baggage_?"

Georgia swallowed a snort. Seemed like she was getting that question from everyone lately. "Why you?" She thought for a moment. "I don't know. I guess I trust you."

"You really have lost your mind." Helena's eyebrows drew together. "People have been talking, you know. Word is The Council's after you. Again. Word is they've even put a bounty on your head." Her gaze turned contemplative. "What makes you think I won't call them the second you leave?"

Georgia met her eyes. "Because you could have told Darius about us."

Helena groaned. "I knew I was going to regret that." She snatched the paper from Georgia's hand and began to read. She pursed her lips. "Some of these things are illegal." She kept reading. Her brows went up. "Highly illegal."

Georgia finally pulled her foot out of the doorway. "Will that be a problem?"

Helena's lips curved into a smirk. She folded up the paper and slipped it into her pocket. Then she opened the door a little wider, and stepped back.

"Come inside."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

#

How the hell did a person prepare for a sex magic ritual?

Darius left the office early. It wasn't like he could concentrate, anyway. The bus ride home seemed to take longer than usual, but when he finally marched through the front door of his studio, he still had three hours until Georgia was supposed to arrive. Three hours! What was he supposed to do for three hours?

He cleaned; first the apartment, then himself. It struck him while he was dragging a razor over his jaw just how long it had been since he'd shaved for a woman. He changed the sheets on the bed. Changed them again.

At last he could think of nothing else to do. He wandered over to the phonograph and trailed a hand along the glossy wood top. Should he put on music? Maybe he should put on music. He started to thumb idly through his record collection.

Damn it, what was he doing?

Darius jerked his hand back and retreated a few steps. He was being ridiculous. What the hell did he think this was, a date? Georgia Clare needed someone to fuck for her ritual. That was it. That was all he was—a convenient cock. He didn't even know what the ritual was, what kind of role—if any—he was supposed to play.

Not that it mattered.

God damn, he needed a drink. Darius started towards the kitchenette. He had just reached the freezer when a knock sounded at the door. His heart stuttered. He took a deep, calming breath and changed direction.

Showtime.

He opened the door to find Georgia on the front porch, a paper grocery bag in each hand. He started to speak, quickly realized he couldn't think of a thing to say. Fortunately, she didn't seem interested in conversation. She shoved one of the bags at him.

"Take this, would you?"

He did, and stepped aside. "Guess you'd better come in."

Georgia inclined her head. Metal glinted, and he noticed a pen tucked behind her ear. She edged over the threshold, fidgeted against the wall while he closed the door. Then she followed him further inside. "Nice place."

Darius snorted. "Nice broom closet, you mean." He turned. She had a faintly sheepish expression on her face. Something softened in his chest. "Thanks. It's all right, I guess."

Georgia's eyes swept the room. Darius imagined her scrutinizing every meager inch, and breathed an inward sigh of relief he'd cleaned the cobwebs from the ceiling. She finally nodded towards the counter. "It all right if we put the bags there? I'd like to get set up."

Right. This was happening. Darius swallowed against the desert that had formed in his mouth. "Sure. Fine."

He waited until she set her bag down, then set the one he was holding down next to it. Georgia hesitated. Her eyes settled on him. "You all right?"

The concern in her voice warmed parts of him that had been frozen for days. Darius shrugged it off. "Fine. Why?"

"Don't know. You seem different, is all." She grimaced. "That was—shit. That was a stupid thing to say. Forget it."

Darius didn't answer. Georgia visibly shook herself, then started to unload. Darius found himself watching. Candles, gemstones, a box of kosher salt, a water bottle that was missing its label; Georgia lined them all up on the counter.

There were other ingredients, too, ones he didn't recognize. Several of them looked vaguely profane. A couple looked downright illegal. He eyed them warily. "I don't suppose you just keep this stuff lying around."

Georgia didn't look at him. "I stopped by Helena's."

"Because of course you did." Darius cast a quick glance over her. "She patch you up, too? Last time I saw you, you were barely upright."

Georgia shrugged. "She had some supplies lying around. I improvised."

He debated pressing for details, decided he didn't really care. He cleared his throat and got back to the subject at hand. "So. Sex magic. How exactly does it work?"

Georgia was struggling to gather up several large pillar candles. She finally succeeded in balancing them in her arms, and shuffled over to the narrow breakfast bar on the opposite side of the kitchenette. "Remember how I told you magic is just another form of energy?"

Darius caught one of the candles right before it slipped out of her grasp, and set it with the others. "Yes."

"Well, sexual energy is some of the most potent energy out there. It's focused, it's intense." Georgia crossed back to the other supplies. "It's creation energy. The spell itself won't be that different. But the kind of mojo we're talking about is going to bump things to a whole other level."

Darius nodded slowly. "Okay. So what's the spell?"

Georgia stopped. "What do you mean?"

"You said the spell won't be that different, but you haven't said what kind of spell it is." He leaned against the refrigerator. "So?"

Georgia hesitated. "See, the thing is..." She coughed.

Darius crossed his arms. "Yes?"

Georgia didn't look at him. "Look, finding that house in Lone Mountain got me thinking. If Ellen really is alive, if she really is using death magic..." She stopped again. Her mouth worked. "If that's true, then we've been going about this all wrong."

Darius straightened a little. "Go on."

"Think about it. Up until now, we've been treating the hellhound—the Cerberus—as the central problem." She met his eyes. "It's not."

Darius uncrossed his arms. "Ellen is."

"Right." Georgia's face tightened. "Which means we shouldn't be focusing on the Cerberus. We should be focusing on Ellen. Where she is. What she's planning." She swallowed. "How to defeat her, if it comes to that."

Something in her tone sent a chill down his spine. Darius straightened the rest of the way. "Georgia." He kept his voice even. "What's the spell?"

Georgia grabbed the box of salt and a few of the more illicit items she'd brought, and carried them to where she'd set the candles. "Thing is, Ellen's had this entire time to stockpile magic—and not just any magic. We're talking death magic. Just like," her voice tripped, "just like my mother's coven. Not many witches know how to face down that kind of power."

He had a terrible feeling he knew where this was headed. "Georgia..."

"But someone has to face it." She crossed the kitchenette again, this time returned with the water bottle and the stones. "Whatever Ellen's started, she can be allowed to finish it. No good magic ever began with the mass murder of two covens."

"Damn it, woman." Darius took a step forward. " _The spell_."

Georgia finally turned back to him. "It has to be me," she said simply. "There's no one else who would stand a chance. Even if there was, no one else should be subjected to that...that...filth." Her expression hardened. "I've already touched it. My soul's already tainted."

His chest ached at the way she said it. Darius opened his mouth.

"But I need your help."

Whatever he'd been planning to say evaporated from his mind. "My help?" He stared down at her. "What could you possibly need from me?"

"Your strength." Georgia looked everywhere but his face. "Like I said, Ellen's been stockpiling magic. I'm not strong enough to defeat her on my own. But if we were to combine energies..." At last, she glanced up at him.

"Let me get this straight." Darius stepped back again and rubbed the back of his neck. "You want to use sex magic to combine our energy, then use it to hunt down and take out Ellen Granch."

"Well, it sounds crazy when you say it like that." Georgia's eyes flitted one way, then the other. "Listen, if there was another way, I'd use it. I promise, this should be perfectly—"

"I'll do it."

She finally looked at him. "What?"

He could barely hear above the blood rushing in his ears. "I said I'll do it."

"Oh. Well. Good, then." She licked her lips. "That's just...good."

If her tongue flicked out one more time, he was going to lose all self-control. As it was, it was all he could do not to bend down and sample the trail of moisture it left behind. Darius jammed his hands in his pockets. "So how's this going to work?"

"Um, yeah." Georgia gestured to the supplies, now gathered on the breakfast bar. "Just give me a moment to set up the spell. It's been a while since I've done anything like this, so I have to—"

"Wait. You've done this before?" That shouldn't bother him. He shouldn't care. But it did, and he did. "With who?"

Georgia's cheeks flushed. "It's not important. The point is, I have to tread carefully. I don't want to get this wrong. The results would be..." A look he didn't understand crossed her face. "Well, the results wouldn't be good."

"Great." Darius retreated into the living room, wandered around to the other side of the breakfast bar. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she set up the candles—two black, three red—in what looked like a pentagram. Sure enough, she opened the box of salt and drew connecting lines between them.

She looked around for something, hissed. "Shit. I knew I forgot something." She looked up helplessly. "I don't suppose you have a glass bowl lying around, do you?"

"Glass bowl." It took him a moment to process the request. "Check the cupboard above your head."

She did, and a few seconds later pulled a dust-coated margarita glass. Darius blinked. He'd forgotten he even owned it.

Georgia made a face, searched the kitchenette until she found a relatively clean dishrag, and wiped the glass down. She set it in the center of the pentagram, smirked a little. "Adds a certain frat-party appeal, don't you think?"

Darius felt a smirk of his own tug at his lips. It quickly faded. God, he wanted things to be easy between them again. He wanted to laugh at her jokes and let his guard down a little. But he couldn't. He'd lost too much. And she was the reason why.

He couldn't forget that, no matter how much he wanted to.

Georgia must have sensed the direction of his thoughts, because her smirk faded too. She ducked her head and cleared her throat. "Almost done."

She piled the stones and other ingredients into the glass, then poured in enough water from the bottle to cover them. Darius arched an eyebrow. "The tap water not good enough for you?"

Her eyes shot to his. He could see the wheels churning in her head while she tried to assess whether or not he was joking. She looked away again. "The ritual calls for consecrated water. I blessed this at the last new moon."

Darius shrugged, and didn't answer.

Finally, Georgia came around the side of the bar and joined him in the living room. On the way, she pulled the pen from behind her ear. She stopped in front of the makeshift altar, and looked up at him.

"Okay, so the whole point is to generate energy towards a specific goal. In our case, that goal is a link between our energetic bodies." She held his gaze. "We're going to keep it simple. This will be an open connection. That means I'll be able to draw energy from you, but you'll also be able to draw it from me."

Darius nodded stiffly. "Fine."

"In simple terms, the more, ah, ecstasy we feel, the more energy we create. Obviously, we want the maximum amount of energy possible, so—"

"Got it." He didn't need her to spell it out. This couldn't just be sex. It had to be mind-blowing sex. Blood rushed to his cock. Darius gritted his teeth.

Seemingly oblivious, Georgia pulled the cap off the pen with her teeth and took his hand. "This will be our telos. Our objective." She drew a blocky-looking design on his palm. "It's a sigil based on the Akkadian word _dabāqu_. It means _to join_."

Darius could only watch while she drew the same sigil on her own palm. "Telos?"

"The desired outcome from a spell. For some spells, a verbal affirmation is enough. We need something a little stronger."

She finished with her sigil and set the pen on the counter. Then she turned back to him and held out her hand, palm-up. Darius hesitated, then pressed his hand into hers. What felt like a low-grade electric current hummed between them. His breath faltered.

Georgia's eyes burned into his. "You see what I mean. The spell is physical. The telos has to be physical too."

Her grip tightened briefly, then she released him and turned back to the altar. Darius caught his breath. He closed his hand into a fist, and peered over her shoulder. "What are you doing now?"

"Lighting the candles. It's time to get started." She paused, half-turned. "That is, unless you've changed your mind."

There was a decidedly husky note in her voice. Darius moistened his lips. He wasn't sure there was any blood left in his brain. Even if he'd wanted to change his mind, he doubted he could remember how. "I haven't."

She nodded once, and turned back to the candles. Her hand shook a little as she lit them, but when she spoke again, her voice was smooth.

"Inanna, the First Daughter of the Moon, decreed the fate of Dumuzi:

'In battle I am your leader,

In combat I am your armor-bearer,

In the assembly I am your advocate,

On the campaign I am your inspiration.'"

One by one, the candle wicks blazed to life. Darius watched, mesmerized.

"I call on the great goddess Inanna, she of the morning star, she of the evening star.

I call on the great god Dumuzi, consort, shepherd-king.

We invoke your bond to strengthen our bond. We invoke your spirits to cleave our spirits."

The tiny flames seemed to grow larger with each passing word. Georgia turned to him, and Darius caught his breath at the expression on her face. She held out her hand. He took it. The sigil on his palm vibrated.

"We offer this token written in flesh, sealed in flesh. So mote it be."

The sigil sang with heat. Darius bit back a hiss. Georgia grimaced, then released him. He waited. She didn't speak.

He raised his eyebrows. "Is that it?"

Her face colored slightly. "That was the spell, yeah. Now we just have to...um..."

"Fuck." He savored the way her eyes widened. "Was that the word you were looking for?" It had never sounded so darkly delicious.

Georgia's face turned scarlet. "How exactly do you want to do this?"

What a loaded question that was. The baser part of him wanted to just yank her jeans down, bend her over, and fuck her face into his chair. Quick. Brutal. A fitting punishment for everything she'd put him through.

But no. Georgia Clare had demanded ecstasy. That meant punishment would have to come later.

Or would it? Darius slid his hands in his pockets again and started to pace a slow circle around her. She thought he seemed different? She had no idea. Right now, he felt about as far from his old self as it was possible to get. His old self would have poured her a drink. Put on some music. Made her feel comfortable and romanced the shit out of her. "How do I want to do this?"

She swallowed hard.

Darius stopped behind her, leaned down and spoke into her ear. "Well, for starters, you can unzip my fly. Then you can get on your knees and suck me off."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

#

The crude directions felt strange on his tongue, and judging by Georgia's sharp intake of breath, she hadn't been expecting them, either. For a brief moment, he worried he'd gone too far.

Then she released her breath on a long, shuddering sigh. "All right."

Darius bit the inside of his cheek against the groan that rose up his throat. Georgia turned and looked up at him. There was something in her green eyes he didn't understand. Her jaw flexed. Her lips firmed.

Next thing he knew, nimble fingers attacked his fly. She wrenched the zipper down without breaking eye contact. He grunted. There wasn't a trace of tenderness in the gesture; a good thing, because he didn't want tenderness. He wanted exactly what he'd told her. He wanted to fuck.

Georgia's nostrils flared, and a predatory gleam lit her eyes. She tilted her face upward. "Kiss me."

Her voice was sex-on-the-rocks, sultry and rough. Darius didn't move.

She slid one hand inside his jeans and down the waistband of his boxer briefs. Her fingernails grazed the fine, sensitive skin of his cock. Darius ground his teeth.

"Kiss me."

In a superhuman effort, he stayed still.

Warm fingers played with his now-raging erection. They slid lower. She cupped his balls, squeezed just hard enough to make him suck in a breath. "Come on, D..."

Darius finally reached up and caught her chin between two fingers. Her power-glazed eyes seemed to darken under his scrutiny. He dropped his gaze to her mouth. "Your lips—"

They parted.

"— my cock."

Georgia exhaled shakily. Darius didn't miss the way her thighs pressed together. Her hips gave a wriggle that nearly sent him cross-eyed. He laid a hand on her shoulder and gently pressed. She didn't resist. A second later, she was on her knees.

By the time she drew him out of his jeans, his dick was fairly weeping for contact. She let out a reverent breath and rubbed her thumb over the tip, spread his arousal over the head. Darius willed himself to remain still.

She leaned forward and tasted him, a light flutter of the very tip of her tongue. His hand seemed to move on its own. His fingers burrowed into her thick purple hair. She stiffened, and he forced his touch to gentle. Forced himself not to grasp, to pull. It ranked as one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

The reward she gave him was well worth it.

Her tongue swirled around him. At the same time she wrapped her fingers around his thick shaft and stroked. Darius resisted the urge to drop his head back. Her perfect lips closing around his dark, swollen flesh was a sight too erotic to miss.

She tortured him with her mouth until he could barely remember his own name. Over on the counter, the flickering candlelight seemed to be growing brighter. Pleasure sizzled in his core. Darius gasped. His balls ached. A distant thought occurred to him.

She was punishing him, too.

With that, he seized her arm and hauled her to her feet. Georgia let out a gasp he didn't allow her to finish. He crushed her lips under his, reveled in the way they firmed with triumph, then softened with need.

He pressed his thumb into the little groove in her chin and opened her mouth for his tongue. She tasted sweet, faintly salty. Christ, that was him. She tasted like him. Darius growled. Georgia growled back, caught his head between her hands and gave the studs in his ears each a solid tweak. His cock kicked against her stomach.

He broke away with a hiss. "Wicked little witch," he muttered. "What am I going to do with you?"

She whimpered. He could feel the need rippling through her body. Hell, he could see it, shimmering through her aura in brilliant waves. He kissed her again, at the same time backed her towards the bed.

Her lips grew frantic under his. Her fingers grasped at the hem of his shirt. Darius chuckled and caught her wrists. "Patience, witch."

Georgia groaned. Darius chuckled again, released her and strode over to his dresser. He opened the top drawer, quickly found what he was looking for. When he turned back around, Georgia's clothes were in a pile next to the bed. She lay on top of the blankets, watching him. One hand played between her legs.

His next breath caught in his throat. Darius' mouth drifted open. He shook himself and fixed her with what he hoped was a stern look. "Hands above your head."

She tilted her chin. "Never been much good with orders, D."

"I know." He wanted to sprint back to the bed. Instead he forced himself to stroll, at the same time wound the silk tie he'd retrieved slowly around his hand.

Just like he'd planned, Georgia's eyes locked on it. "What's that for?"

"I can't make love to you, Georgia." He raked his eyes over her body, relished the flush that followed them. "Not like last time. I don't think I have it in me."

Twin spots of red rose in her cheeks. She looked away. "I understand." She shifted awkwardly, started to cover herself.

He was proud of how quickly he moved. He surged over the bed and trapped her wrists beside her. Georgia's breath hitched. She stared up at him, eyes wide.

"I said I couldn't make love to you." Darius slid his hands down and notched them into hers. "I never said I couldn't fuck you."

Before she could answer, he yanked her hands up over her head. He pressed them against the headboard, gave himself a moment to appreciate the way her breasts rose and drew taut. Then he flipped the end of his tie into his palm and began winding it around her wrists, through the wooden slats.

Georgia arched. Her nipples pebbled. "Darius..."

"It's your fault." He didn't slow. "It's all your fault. But you must be some witch, because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. About tasting you. About fucking you." He shook his head. "Maybe Kristof was right. Maybe you really did put a spell on me."

He knotted off the tie. The silk would crease. He didn't care. Georgia arched again, tested the limits of the restraints. A strangled sound rose up her throat.

Darius leaned down and nuzzled the shell of her ear. "You want pleasure, witch? I'll give it to you, but I have a condition: tonight, your body is mine. Your pleasure is mine. Your next fucking breath is mine." He nipped her earlobe, savored the cry that slipped from her lips. "You took more from me than you can ever give back. Consider tonight a down payment."

He backed away, leaving her bound to the bed. Her eyes were nearly black. She started to speak, faltered. Tried again. "What are you going to do?"

"Funny you should ask." Darius stood and stripped off his t-shirt. He pretended not to notice how her lips parted. "I saw Father Gregory the other day. We had an interesting talk. He said something that really stuck with me."

He climbed back onto the bed, with one hand urged Georgia's knees apart. A bright red flush spread up her chest, the color a perfect match to the glistening flesh now bared to his gaze. Darius settled between her legs and tried to pretend his insides weren't catching fire.

"He told me I should pray. Not in so many words, but I'm pretty sure that's what he meant."

Georgia whimpered.

"Thing is, I don't pray. Haven't for years. Don't have anything to pray to anymore."

She didn't look like she was breathing. Darius ran a hand up her inner thigh, higher, until her skin grew slick with arousal. He brought his fingers to his nose and breathed in her musky scent. She groaned.

So did he. "Goddamn, though. I think I might have just found something."

Georgia twisted. "Darius."

Darius dipped his head and closed his lips over her sex.

He had to hold down her hips to keep her from bucking off the bed. Her hoarse shout was music to his ears, and hell if she wasn't the sweetest, juiciest thing he'd ever tasted. He traced her intricate folds with his lips, teased her slit with his tongue. Then he latched gently onto her swollen, sensitive bud and sucked.

Georgia's voice hit several octaves in quick succession. She fought his grip and rocked against his mouth. Darius closed his eyes. Her scent suffused the most primal parts of his brain, places driven by nature and instinct. A growl rose up from somewhere deep inside him. He slid a finger inside her, crooked it and stroked.

Georgia arched. "Fuck! I'm—"

He pulled away and settled back on his heels. Georgia blinked up at him, her eyes liquid. The flush had traveled up her neck and mottled her cheeks. Darius ground his teeth. She was beautiful like this. Fuck, she was beautiful, period.

And she's all mine.

He barely heard the little voice above the roar of blood in his ears. He decided to pretend it hadn't spoken at all. He waited until Georgia's breathing had calmed and the color in her cheeks had receded somewhat.

Then he dipped his head and went back for seconds. Thirds. More.

He lost track of how many times he brought her to the edge, only to ease off at the last minute. At last, he sat back and looked at her face again. Every square inch of skin was bright, flaming red. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

"Oh my god." Her voice was raw. She tugged weakly against his tie. "Please...please..."

Darius peeled himself off the bed. His cock was so hard it hurt. He shucked his jeans, mentally congratulated himself on the decision to forgo underwear earlier. Georgia made a soft sound; pure need. Darius fumbled a condom from the box already on the nightstand, snagged the foil wrapper with his teeth and ripped it open.

He protected himself in what had to have been record time, returned to the bed and settled between her legs. Her wrists jerked, and he knew she wanted to cup his face, wrap her arms around him, the same as when they'd made love. A part of him ached to let her.

But they weren't making love.

Darius reached down and spread her open with one hand, with the other guided himself to her slick heat. One smooth thrust, and he buried himself inside her. Georgia gasped, but his earlier cruelty had prepared her well. Her body didn't fight him for a single inch.

He stilled. Georgia snarled and yanked at her wrists. Darius bent down and spoke into her ear. "Say my name." Sweat beaded on his forehead. "I like the way you say it."

She didn't answer right away. He could feel the ragged rise and fall of her breath. Then she turned her head and nuzzled his jaw. Warm air tickled his skin. "Fuck me, Darius."

He moaned before he could stop himself, retreated, and plunged into her again. A feral sound wrenched from her lips. He heard the same sound on his. Pleasure was an effective weapon, but it was a double-edged blade. Darius pillared his hands on either side of her head and punished them both.

He could feel when she was close. Her body was suddenly all heat, all dizzying motion. On her, ecstasy was a thing beyond beauty. Her heels dug into his ass, urging him on. She arched her back, all but thrusting her breast into his mouth. Darius lowered his head and rasped her nipple with his tongue.

Tortured bliss melted over her face. Her body shuddered around him, then clenched tight.

An answering pressure reared up inside him, crashed through him without warning or pretense. His hips juddered. Pleasure raced through his veins like a drug. Darius dropped his head back. For a moment, he swore he could feel magic crackling around him.

Then he was gone.

† † †

Afterwards, he wanted nothing more than to crawl under the blankets with her and hold her until sunlight poked through the windows.

He rolled off the bed before he could give in to the temptation, took a moment to untie her before padding into the kitchenette. After a couple minutes, he heard her get up too. He tensed, waited for the touch of her hand on his shoulder, the brush of her lips against his back.

They never came.

Instead, she made for their makeshift altar. Darius watched her out of the corner of his eye. She bent over the candles, and muttered some incantation he couldn't quite hear. The flames flared briefly. One by one, she pinched them out.

Darius pulled open the freezer door and retrieved the dwindling bottle of Absolut from inside. He could feel her eyes on him. He didn't turn around. "So. Was that it?"

She must have been getting better at controlling her feelings around him; he barely felt the pain that radiated from her. She ducked her head, and started back towards the bed. "Yeah. That was it."

He watched in silence while she dressed. He should say something. Christ, he wanted to say something, but what? _Thanks?_ _Call me?_

Georgia sat on the edge of the bed and started to pull on her boots. Darius cleared his throat. "Where will you go? Kristof will have your place staked out."

"I know." She lifted a shoulder, dropped it again. "I'll think of something."

He hesitated. "You should just stay here. You know, for the night."

She looked up sharply. "Are you sure?"

He fought off a cringe. Not even a little bit. He never brought people to his place. Not friends, not women. Now, all he could think about was seeing Georgia's dark hair fanned across his pillow. Waking up next to her soft, warm body.

If he had a single ounce of self-preservation left in his body, he'd send her packing. Immediately.

Instead, he nodded. "Sure. I mean, look outside. It's halfway to morning, anyway. You might as well." Something occurred to him. "Unless you don't want to."

He found himself holding his breath while he waited for her answer.

Georgia nodded slowly. "All right. Yeah. Thanks." She looked around the tiny studio. "So how do you want to, I mean, where will we...?"

"Take the bed." He was suddenly, painfully aware he still naked, and started towards his closet. Georgia's eyes followed him the entire way. Darius fished through his clothes until he found a pair of basketball shorts, and pulled them on. "I'll sleep on the chair."

Georgia watched him a moment longer, then nodded again. "Okay."

# CHAPTER THIRTY

#

It wasn't quite morning when Georgia slipped out of bed.

She stole across the floor to the studio's tiny balcony, pausing on her way to glance at the chair where Darius had passed out. His neck was crooked at a painful-looking angle, but his breathing was deep and relaxed. She had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't the first time he'd fallen asleep in that chair.

She crept outside and closed the door behind her, then leaned against the railing and breathed in the damp air. A shroud of fog and silence lay draped over the city. The bars and clubs had closed hours ago, and their patrons had long since stumbled home. The people who conducted their business in the dark had already seeped back into the cracks and shadows. Everything was still. Everything was quiet.

A stiff breeze whispered over her bare legs. Georgia shivered. She'd taken off her jeans and jacket to go to sleep. Now, there was no barrier between her and the cold. Her body felt like an exposed nerve, raw and sensitive. Even the slightest contact was almost too much to bear.

But the spell had worked.

She'd known the instant Darius peeled his body from hers. She could feel the link simmering between them as she spoke the last few words of the spell; a formality, really. It had worked. They had done it. And contrary to her most private fears, they were both still in one piece.

"What time is it?"

Georgia jumped a little at Darius' raspy baritone. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You didn't." Heat at her back said he was standing right behind her. "What time is it?"

She forced herself not to move. "Close to three."

"The witching hour," he murmured. "Figures."

Georgia didn't answer. There was a tone in his voice she didn't understand. She was too tired and drained to try.

"You should come inside. It's freezing out here."

Georgia closed her eyes. Gods, she wished he wouldn't do that. He was so good at pretending he cared about her, she could almost convince herself he did. It only made reality bite that much harder.

The silence between them grew heavy, as though he was waiting for her to say something. For the life of her, she couldn't imagine what. He was right: what she'd cost him, she could never replace. An apology would only sound trite.

Then again, he'd turned around and taken her very soul in payment. That hardly seemed fair, either.

She finally whispered the only thing she could think of. "I really am sorry about J."

"I know." He was silent for a moment. "Tell me about death magic."

Georgia stiffened. "What about it?"

"Tell me what it's like."

Shit. What was she supposed to say to that? She stared at the buildings across the street, at the string of lights further out on the horizon. Then she braced herself, and gave him the truth. "It's the best high you can possibly imagine."

She turned. Darius' face was expressionless

She forced herself to meet his eyes. "It's better than anything. Better than booze. Better than sex. I'd heard about it what felt like my entire life, how bad it was, how dangerous it was." She shook her head. "I was curious, and I was dumb, so I tried it. And it didn't feel bad. It felt fucking amazing. Before I knew it, I was hooked."

Darius lifted his chin. "And what about the sex magic?"

Hell, he wasn't going to let her have any secrets, was he? Georgia swallowed hard and nodded. "I know what you're going to ask. It was Kristof. I did it with Kristof."

His face turned to stone.

She hurried to explain. "It was years ago. We were in the same coven at the time. He was only ever a friend. The kind who could fuck you Sunday night and not make a big thing of it Monday morning." She took a deep breath. "I needed friends like that back then."

Darius didn't speak.

Georgia sighed. "Anyway, I came across that spell in one of my mom's old grimoires, and Kris agreed to try it out with me. We bought a six-pack, we went out to the beach, I set everything up. Then we, you know..."

"You can skip that part." Darius' voice was tight.

"Right." Georgia cleared her throat. "Anyway, I was heavy into death magic by then. I told myself I could handle it, that it wouldn't be a problem. But partway through the ritual, it snuck up on me."

The memory was as fresh and clear as if it had just happened. She was back on the beach, the taste of PBR sharp on her breath. Kristof was underneath her, his pale skin glowing in the moonlight, his long hair dark against the sand.

It had turned white after that night.

Suddenly, she couldn't look Darius in the eye anymore. She turned and faced the empty street. "The spell turned into something...else. I almost killed him before I realized what was happening. I managed to pull back, but only barely."

_Pale. Too pale._ His hair, his lips, his skin. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She refused to let them fall.

"That was the first time I realized just how far I'd spiraled. I packed a bag and left the city the next day." Georgia rubbed her arms. "Went to the mountains for a while to pull myself together. And I swore off death magic for good."

"Until Hunters Point."

There was no judgment in the words, only fact. She nodded shortly. "It didn't make a difference, though. Kristof didn't want anything to do with me. No surprise there. He never spoke to me again...at least, not until that night at Hex."

Darius was silent.

Georgia squared her shoulders. "I know you hate me. Everyone else does. Go ahead. Say it." She fixed her eyes on a spot on the distant skyline. "I wouldn't blame you for a second."

There was a pause, then Darius sighed. "We should go inside. You never know who could be watching out here."

She scowled. "Let them watch. I don't care."

Darius chuckled. The sound was quiet and self-deprecating.

Georgia turned, surprised. What little she could see of his face in the pre-dawn darkness made her heart squeeze. She started to reach out to him, caught herself at the last minute. "What is it?"

"You're right." The words were strained. "I should hate you. And believe me, there's a big part of me that wants to." His dark eyes glinted. "But that right there? That's why I can't."

Georgia caught her breath.

"You don't hide, Georgia. The entire time I've known you, I've never once seen you hide. Not from the other witches. Not from the boys in HP. Not from yourself." Darius' voice dropped. "I've been hiding for as long as I can remember. Especially from myself."

Georgia's pulse rushed in her ears. She could barely breathe around the tightness in her chest. She hesitated, then reached out and smoothed her fingers along his jaw. "You never hid from me."

He drew a deep, tortured breath and leaned into her touch. His eyes found hers. "I never wanted to."

This time, when he lowered his lips to hers, he was gentleness itself. Georgia sank into him with a murmur. She did what she'd ached to do earlier and splayed her hands over his bare chest, ran them up his corded shoulders. Then she coiled her arms around his neck and drew her body flush to his.

He didn't hate her.

As if to drive the point home, he snaked his arms around her and pulled her closer still, until she could feel the solid thud of his heartbeat against her chest. He parted her lips with his, danced his tongue alongside hers. Georgia groaned into his mouth.

Just like that, the kiss went from gentle, to hungry, to ravenous. Darius spun around and backed her up against the side of the building. His fingers dug into her hips. She could feel his cock hardening through the thin fabric of his shorts. _That_. She wanted that. She reached down and touched him through the silky material. He flexed and grew against her hand.

She didn't even realize he'd slid his own hand inside her cotton Jockeys until a sharp bolt of pleasure turned her legs to water. Georgia clutched his shoulders. "Oh, fuck."

He touched her the same way she'd shown him. Sweet tension wound up inside her. She gasped. Darius deCompostela and his magic fucking fingers. She broke hard and fast. The tension splintered into a thousand razor-sharp shards.

She'd never come on anyone's hand besides her own. She didn't have a chance to feel self-conscious before Darius nipped her ear and hooked the waistband of her panties. With one jerk, he sent them slithering down her legs.

"Tell me we can do this." Desperation tinged his voice. "Right here, right now."

She knew what he was asking. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. "Yeah." She moistened her lips. "I'm clean, and I'm on the shot."

"Good." He was already dragging her back from the wall. "I'm clean too."

Georgia saw where he was leading, and closed the rest of the distance herself. Heat shimmered through her core. She wrapped her hands around the balcony railing. The next second, Darius was at her back. A quick adjustment, a slight shift of her leg, and...

"Holy _shit_."

One moment she was empty, the next she was suddenly, gloriously full. He gave her a heartbeat to adjust, then rocked gently. Georgia's head dropped back, landed against his chest. A shivery sound spilled from her lips and disappeared into the darkness. Darius slid back, then pressed into her again.

Georgia leaned into the connection. The feel of flesh on flesh was a revelation: Darius' arousal mingled with hers, slicking the way for him to fuck her harder, faster. She'd never gone raw with anyone before. She'd never trusted anyone that much.

Never loved anyone that much.

They quickly found their rhythm. Soon Darius stopped moving altogether, simply dug his fingers into her hips and let her grind on his cock. His broad head found one very specific, very sensitive place deep inside her. Georgia sped up, guided him over the spot again, again, again.

She came with a rush so intense it made her ears ring. Dimly, she felt Darius' breath turn ragged against her neck. He muttered something into her skin, gasped, grunted. His cock jerked. Heat lashed her deepest places.

Georgia turned, clasped the back of head and dragged his lips to hers. Tears pricked her eyes for the second time that night. This time, she didn't try to will them away.

Darius deCompostela didn't hate her.

For the first time in her life, she believed in miracles.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

#

He'd never seen someone put away so many chicken feet.

Darius sat across from Georgia in his favorite dim sum restaurant. They had passed the day in his studio; talking, fucking. If it was up to him, they'd still be there.

Unfortunately, they had a job to do.

Georgia had outlined her plan while they waited for the food, then left him to ruminate while she polished off every last piece of _fung zao_ on the plate. Darius watched without a word. The blissed-out expression on her face made something tighten in his chest. It had never occurred to him how much he could enjoy watching someone eat.

Come to think of it, there were lots of things that hadn't occurred to him before he'd met her.

Georgia swallowed the last bit of cartilage off the foot she was chewing. She cast a quick glance around the restaurant, then swiped her finger through a streak of black bean sauce on the plate. She raised it to her mouth and sucked it clean, noticed him watching, and winked. Darius snorted.

Christ, he was addicted to this woman.

Only when she went for a piece of his _har gau_ did he finally snap to attention. He smacked her wrist lightly with his chopsticks. "Greedy."

Georgia smirked. "Oh good, you're back. Thought I'd lost you there."

Darius made a face and plucked up one of the shrimp dumplings. "You did."

"Damn." Georgia signaled a woman wheeling a cart between the tables. "Look, I know this scenario leaves a lot to be desired—"

"Understatement," he muttered.

Georgia inclined her head. "Fine. It blows chunky bits. I get it. But I can't afford to just sit around doing nothing. If The Council catches up with me—"

She broke off as the cart auntie pulled up beside their table. Darius started to order. Georgia beat him to the punch.

" _M'goi fung zao_."

He stared at her. That unnamable something in his chest wound tighter.

The cart auntie shuffled around a few plates, then pulled one out and set it on the table. She pulled the lid back. A burst of fragrant steam rushed out. Georgia hummed her approval, and the woman set the lid on the cart. Without a word, she wheeled off.

Georgia waited until she was out of earshot, then turned to him again. Her eyes were serious. "We're out of time, D. You said it yourself: someone has to put a stop to all this. Our odds are as good as anyone else's. Hell, they're probably better."

She picked up her chopsticks and transferred a few steaming chicken feet to her plate. Darius watched, sighed. "Fine. Let's say we find the Cerberus. Let's say we stop Ellen from, shit, whatever it is she's planning. That doesn't guarantee you're off the hook."

Georgia's hand wavered. "I know."

"Great. So how are you going to convince The Council you're innocent in all this?"

She didn't answer.

A sick feeling took root in his belly. "You don't know, do you?"

Without a word, she reached for her teacup. Darius trapped her hand under his. Something flashed behind her eyes. She carefully freed herself and picked up her cup. "It doesn't change anything. We need to do this. _I_ need to do this." She took a heavy sip of tea. "Let's talk about something else. Kristof."

Darius blinked. "Kristof?"

"You never did tell me how the two of you know each other." Georgia's eyes twinkled. "A reformed Catholic and a gray witch? There's got to be a good story in that."

Actually, it was more like the beginning of a bad joke. Darius took a sip of his own tea. "I, ah, sort of saved his life."

Georgia's eyes bugged. "Get out." Her forehead wrinkled. "How do you 'sort of' save someone's life?"

Darius cleared his throat. "Thing is, I was the one who was supposed to kill him."

Georgia's face grew serious. She propped her elbows on the table. "Okay. Start at the beginning."

Darius twisted into a more comfortable position. "Have you ever heard of The Borromean League?"

Georgia shook her head.

"Basically, it's the Catholic Church's version of the Watchmen." His stomach churned. Even after all they'd been through, some secrets were hard to let go of. He took a deep breath. "Unlike the Watchmen, though, The League doesn't just monitor the subversive world. Their mandate is to actively seek its destruction. Members are selected young, raised and educated in the Church. When the time is right, their education is...enhanced."

Georgia's face went ghostly white. "That school you went to... "

Darius nodded.

She sucked in a quiet breath. "And this enhanced education entails what, exactly?"

Darius folded his hands on the table. "Let's put it this way. When I was sixteen, I studied math, science, English, and world history." He paused. "I also studied Latin, religion, cryptozoology, and weaponology." He lowered his voice. "I'm a killer. At least, I was supposed to be."

Georgia looked vaguely ill. "And Kristof?"

Darius looked away. "Most venators get their first assignment when they turn eighteen. I was different. My training took longer, because of my...gift." The word still felt strange on his tongue. "I was twenty before the Brothers decided I was ready. There wasn't much ceremony involved. I was given a location, a name, and a photograph."

Georgia didn't speak. Darius looked back at her. Her eyes were wide.

He sighed. "You have to understand. My entire life, I'd been told the subversive world was an abomination before God. Hell, the school I went to was named for St. George the Dragon-Slayer. I knew how to kill a werewolf before I knew how to drive. In my mind, all subversives were monsters."

Georgia frowned. "So what happened?"

Darius chuckled ruefully. "I met one. And you know what? He looked exactly like me." He rubbed his mouth. "That's when I woke up. Killing werewolves was one thing, but if this guy was a monster, what did that make me? How long until The League handed someone _my_ name and picture?"

A cart auntie rolled by, the wheels on her cart squeaking noisily. Darius shut his mouth. The instant she was out of earshot, Georgia leaned forward. "What did you do?"

Darius shrugged. "I found Kristof exactly where my information said he'd be. I didn't have a clue how to handle the situation, I just knew I couldn't go through with the assignment. In the end, I went up to him and introduced myself."

Georgia had been about to take another drink. She spluttered into her cup. "Are you serious?"

Darius smirked. "Yeah, that was more or less his reaction, too."

Georgia gaped. "What did you say? 'Hi, my name is Darius. I'm a warrior for God, and by the way, I'm here to kill you'?"

Darius grinned. "Something like that."

Georgia shook her head. "You're even crazier than I realized, deCompostela."

"You say the sweetest things." He picked up his chopsticks and plucked at the last piece of har gau on his plate. "Anyway, I warned Kristof about The League, then we spent the rest of the day talking. Turns out we weren't so different—I actually had more in common with him than any of the kids I'd gone to school with."

Georgia's eyes had gone wide again. "What about The League? How did you get out?"

"Father Gregory." Darius' chest squeezed. "I went to see him first thing next morning. I didn't tell him what I'd done, but I told him I wasn't a killer. I told him I wanted out."

Georgia's eyes were steady on his face. "And he got you out."

Darius took a deep breath. "He got me out. Still don't know exactly how. The only condition was that I never have anything to do with the subversive world. I didn't want anything to do with it anyway, so that wasn't an issue. I started over. Left home, apprenticed with a P.I agency in The Castro. Eventually, I got licensed and went out on my own." He exhaled heavily. "And here I am."

"And here you are," Georgia repeated softly. "With me. Shit, I've put you in real danger, haven't I?"

Darius locked eyes with her. "Nothing I can't handle." He didn't say what else popped into his head: _you're worth it_.

"And now?" Georgia moistened her lips. "How are you doing? You know, with...everything?"

Her eyes made it clear what she was really asking. _How are you doing with J?_

Leave it to her to bring up all the things he least wanted to talk about. If she were anyone else, he'd tell her to fuck off. But Georgia wasn't anyone else. Darius pressed his lips together and searched her face. There was no guile there that he could see, only genuine concern.

Suspicious tightness tugged at his throat. He looked away. "I'm all right, I guess."

Surprisingly, he was. The grief was still there, but there was a different quality to it now. It almost felt cleansing, like the pain was systematically disinfecting his soul.

He looked back at her. "I'm not over what happened. Don't think I'll ever be, you know? But I'm dealing." A smile tugged at his lips. "J'd be pissed if I wasn't. Hell, she'd probably come back and haunt my ass."

Georgia's chuckle rolled over him. Her eyes found his, and Darius caught his breath. A hundred different things sprang to the tip of his tongue.

He couldn't tell her any of them.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny plastic bag he'd grabbed before they left the studio. "Here." His voice came out strangely thick. He cleared his throat. "Saw this a while back. Made me think of you."

He slid the bag across the table, held his breath while Georgia picked it up and tugged it open. She took out the tiny silver medallion inside. Her forehead creased. "Is this a saints medal?"

Darius nodded.

She gave him a skeptical look, then squinted at the lettering. "St. Columbanis. Patron saint of..." her voice trailed off as she read the rest. She glanced up again. Light danced in her eyes. "No way. Is this for real?"

Darius grinned. "Like I said. It made me think of you."

"I'm touched." Georgia rubbed it between her fingers. "What's the occasion?"

He shrugged, hoped it looked casual. "No occasion. After last night, it hit me I'd never taken you on a real date. Seemed like a huge moral failing on my part." He hesitated. "I wanted to fix that. You know, just in case."

"Just in case..." Georgia blinked. "Wait, this is a date?"

Darius arched an eyebrow. "That a problem?"

"No!" Her eyes sparkled. "No, not a problem. I just can't remember the last time someone took me on a date."

Darius snorted. He raised his teacup in a toast. "Here's to living long enough for a second one."

Georgia choked on a laugh. "I'll drink to that." She clinked her rim to his. They sipped in silence for a moment, each lost to their own thoughts. Abruptly, she set down her cup and held out the medal to him. "Here. Put it on me, would you?"

Darius set his cup down too, and took it. He stood and stepped around the table to her chair. Georgia sat a little straighter, lifted her hair and tilted her chin forward. He looped the medal around her neck, savored the way his fingertips buzzed when they met her skin.

By some miracle, he navigated the clasp without mishap. He stood back and admired his handiwork. Georgia winked up at him. The medal gleamed against her neck, the miniscule lettering bright and clear.

St. Columbanis, patron saint of motorcycles.

† † †

"Now I _really_ don't like this."

Darius scrutinized the grand, Mediterranean-looking house down the street. Georgia had parked the Valkyrie a good two blocks away. He didn't blame her. Under the rays of the full moon, the house's white façade radiated an eerie glow. The wrought iron fence looked stark and forbidding.

And then there was the energy. It poured off the place in waves. Black. Putrid. Heavy. It coated the inside of his mouth like fine ash, set his nerves tingling.

Georgia was already climbing off the Valk. She went around to one of the hardbags and started on the latch. "I already told you, this is how it has to be. Any witch worth their wand can recognize sex magic when they see it. Once Ellen realizes what we've done, she's going to break the link any way she can." She glanced up. "If she gets her hands on you, we'll both be in deep shit."

Darius scowled, and opened his mouth.

She moved in a blur, and before he could speak, soft, warm lips closed over his. He groaned. Every thought in his head promptly unraveled. He tugged Georgia closer, fisted a hand in her hair and took the kiss deeper. Her sweet sigh rolled over his tongue. Then she pulled back.

"Promise me," she whispered. Her eyes blazed into his. "Promise me you'll stay here. Seriously, I don't know what I'd do if—"

She broke off. It didn't matter. He knew what she'd been about to say. He slid his fingers through her hair until he cradled her head in his hand. Then he brushed his lips over hers again. They barely touched before he pulled back. He felt it in every cell in his body.

Georgia stared at him, a dazed expression on her face. Darius trailed a finger down her cheek. "Me, either," he murmured. He took a deep breath, and set her back on her feet. "Watch your back, witch. You still owe me for time and expenses."

Georgia snorted. "And to think you were almost charming." She turned back to the hardbag and fished out a small cloth pouch.

Darius watched. "How do you know where you're going?"

Georgia's hand wavered. "The Cerberus. Its energy is like a trail." She nodded over his shoulder. "It leads in there."

Darius swiveled in his seat and followed her gaze. The border of Golden Gate Park was behind him. Dark foliage crowded up against the sidewalk. A narrow footpath led into the grounds.

When he looked back at her, she was drawing something else out of the Valk's hardbag. He balked. "Is that a _wand_?"

"Yeah." Georgia shoved it into the back waistband of her jeans. She took one look at his face, and glowered. "I swear to god, if you make even one Fairy Godmother reference..."

It was his turn to snort. Darius raised his hands. "Not a word. I didn't say a word."

Georgia glared at him a moment longer. Gradually, her expression softened. She ducked her head. "Thank you. You know, for...I mean, if you hadn't agreed to take my case..."

Darius carefully dismounted, skirted the bike until he was standing in front of her. He cupped her face in his hands and searched her eyes. Then he bent down and kissed the tip of her nose. He lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary.

It took everything he had to release her and step back. "Go do your thing, magic girl."

Georgia stared up at him. For a moment, she seemed frozen in place.

Then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the trees.

† † †

Stepping into the darkness felt like coming home.

Within minutes of starting down the footpath, Georgia was in her element. It didn't take long for her eyes to adjust to the lack of manmade light. The filtered glow of the moon was enough. She took a deep, cleansing breath; let the spicy, seductive scent of vegetation and soil wash over her.

Out here, the city might as well have been a million miles away. The distant drone of traffic disappeared behind a thick wall of cypress and bay trees. Before long, she could pick out the individual songs of insects, of animals. Dead leaves and sticks crunched softly underfoot. The very earth seemed to be singing to her.

Georgia paused, and closed her eyes. She could allow herself a moment to bask. To appreciate.

After all, chances were she wouldn't make it through the night.

She'd told Darius their odds were good. It had been half-true. His odds at making it out of this were decent. Hers were another matter.

Georgia touched the St. Columbanis medal around her neck. Unlike her, Darius had a job. An office. A life. She'd made up her mind over dinner: she was going to make sure he got back to them. It was the least she could do. She'd cost him too much already.

She started moving again. He'd be furious if he knew what she was planning, but he'd get over it. He'd get over her, too.

The footpath ended at a long, winding road. Georgia stopped at the curb, and looked both ways. She'd never seen Conservatory Drive at night before. The absence of cars was mildly unsettling. Directly ahead, a lone streetlamp cast an orange glow over the surrounding trees.

Suddenly the shadows felt sharper, more sinister. She took a deep breath, and forced herself to concentrate. There it was: the unmistakable tingle along her spine. Georgia stepped onto the pavement and let it guide her down another, darker path.

She tightened her jaw. Darius didn't know it yet, but he was going to have a nice, long life. Her lips curved. It would be the kind of life she'd always imagined: a life full of joy and babies and hikes in the mountains and long walks on the beach and quiet evenings by the fire with someone he loved.

Someone who loved him as much as she did.

Georgia swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Of all the things to think about at a time like this. She was heading into battle, for god's sake. She couldn't afford to turn into some simpering idiot at the eleventh hour.

The path forked. Georgia followed the pull of magic to the right, past a wooden sign that read FUCHSIA DELL. She sighed. To hell with it. If she was going to die, she might as well die honest. She squared her shoulders and stared into the night.

"I love you, Darius deCompostela."

If she'd been paying attention, she would have been prepared when the magic abruptly crested. As it was, she had only a second to register the acrid scent of brimstone, the flash of teeth, the massive paw arcing towards her.

Pain exploded in her skull. The words she'd finally dared to say out loud were her last coherent thought. _I love you, Darius deCompostela._

Then the world swam into blackness.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

#

Damn, but he hated the dark.

Darius shifted awkwardly beside the Valkyrie, and mentally backtracked. He didn't hate the dark. He hated the way the dark made him feel. The sneaky chill that slithered up his spine when he gazed into its depths. The constant sense that something was hiding in the shadows. The feeling of impending doom around every corner.

At least he'd come armed.

He jimmied his hands into the stiff pockets of his jeans, and stared across the street. Maybe it wasn't the dark that was messing with him tonight. Maybe it was that house. There was something about it, something he could sense even through his shields. He took a deep breath, and lowered them a tiny fraction.

Immediately, he snapped them back into place. Nausea rolled in his belly. He forced himself to breathe evenly.

In that brief, unguarded moment, the house spoke to him.

Maybe not quite spoke. More like whispered, in a voice that turned his blood to ice and painted dark pictures in his mind. This time when he stared at it, he could see past the beautiful exterior to what lay within.

Absolute, unadulterated evil.

A pale glimmer on the balcony drew his eye. Darius took an inadvertent step forward and peered a little closer. He shouldn't be able to see a spirit, not while he was shielding. But there it was, like a wisp of bluish smoke. As he watched, the smoke solidified into a solid shape.

A woman.

He'd never seen a spirit manifest that way before. He wracked his brain for what little he'd taught himself of etheric phenomena. He could only come up with one other possibility: an astral projection.

Darius pressed his lips together. He should stay put. He'd promised Georgia.

By the time that thought occurred to him, he was already jack-rabbiting across the street. His .40 jostled awkwardly in his shoulder holster. He cleared the curb seconds before a Muni bus roared past. His next breath tasted like exhaust. Darius savored it, the mundane scent strangely comforting.

He kept his posture loose and casual as he approached the house. The nearer he drew, the heavier the air became. By the time he finally reached the corner, he felt like he was slogging through muddy water. Even breathing was a struggle.

He kept up his pace by sheer force of will, assessed the iron fence as he went. Concrete pillars broke up the bars at even intervals. The decorative spear tips were blunted, thank god, but the yard beyond was a problem. Except for the palm trees along the curb, it was completely exposed. Anyone passing by would see him sneaking around for sure.

He continued past the front of the house. On the other side, a tiny triumphant voice crowed in his ear. Jackpot. A gate was built into the fence. Behind it was what looked like a side yard, secluded from the street and engulfed in shadow.

Darius planted his boot on one of the concrete pillars, gripped two of the decorative spears, and hoisted himself over the top of the fence. He landed on what felt like stone pavers, quickly moved away from the fence. His lips twitched.

Tonight, the something-in-the-shadows was him.

He tested the windows around the first floor of the house. At last, he found one that was unlocked. Darius slid it open without a sound, tried not to think about how many laws he was breaking.

He paused. It suddenly occurred to him how woefully inexperienced he was at this sort of thing. He studied the shape of the window, considered the possible angles of entry. Then he gripped the windowsill, hoisted himself up, and swung himself through feet-first.

Georgia would be so proud.

He stole out of the half-bath he'd landed in, down a darkened hall that opened into an expansive entryway. He bit back a snort. Georgia hadn't been exaggerating when she described this place as a mansion. He could probably fit his entire apartment in the front foyer.

There was a large, winding staircase in the middle of it. Darius thought back to the figure on the balcony, took a deep breath and started upwards.

Even in the dark, the place looked expensive. He could make out the shapes of paintings on the walls, the silhouette of a statue on the landing. Lavish French doors led to what he assumed was the balcony he'd seen from the street. The opulent surroundings were markedly at odds with the strange, organic smell that teased his nostrils. It took him a moment to place what it was.

Magic.

The smell grew stronger the higher he climbed, until he finally reached the top of the stairs. Darius blinked hard. His head was starting to spin. He started down the hallway in front of him one halting step at a time, opened the line of doors and checked each room as he went. Nothing unusual: bedroom, bedroom, bedroom, office, bathroom.

He came to the door at the very end of the hall, and tried the knob. Locked. Darius flattened his palm against the wood. A slight shiver rippled through him.

That was all the smoking gun he needed. He took a deep breath and glanced behind him. Then he planted his leg and aimed a solid kick at the door. It shuddered, but held. He kicked again.

This time, the wood splintered. The door swung inward with a defeated creak. Darius found himself staring at another set of stairs, too steep and narrow to really be considered a staircase. He pulled his .40 from the holster under his jacket. He double-checked the chamber and clicked off the safety, then began the awkward climb up.

The air grew thick with magic and dust. By the time he reached the final step, both his legs and lungs were burning. Darius raised his gun and let the barrel enter the room first.

Initially, it looked just like any other attic—or at least, the way he pictured any other attic would look. But then his eyes adjusted, and something in the corner caught his attention. Darius carefully picked his way over. His eyebrows shot up.

Beds. Three beds, to be precise. And they weren't empty.

Two of them each contained a woman. One was middle-aged and rather dowdy-looking, her round face framed by wiry silver curls. The other was in her mid-seventies, at least; dressed like she was headed to a luncheon. At first he thought they were asleep. Then he peered closer. His stomach lurched. Their faces were a sickening shade of gray. They didn't appear to be breathing.

From what all the news outlets were saying, someone had been missing from the Cow Hollow crime scene. He had a feeling he'd just found her. Darius stared down at the silver-haired woman. If the other one was Cordelia Trimble, then who the hell was she?

He ground his teeth. This was just—fuck. He inched closer to the bed nearest him, steeled his churning stomach, and touched Cordelia Trimble's wrinkled neck. Her skin felt fragile, feather-soft. A pulse fluttered against his fingers.

Darius yanked his hand back with a muttered curse. His mind raced. Whatever Ellen Granch had going on, clearly these women were part of it. She must have kidnapped them, then put them in the magical equivalent of cold storage until...what, exactly?

He sure as hell wasn't going to wait around to find out. He clicked the safety back on the .40 and holstered it, then gently scooped up Cordelia Trimble in his arms. She was as light as a child.

Before he could do anything else, a growl rumbled behind him. Darius turned slowly.

The Cerberus was just beginning to materialize. A streak of moonlight from the attic's lone window illuminated its black, oily fur. A scorch mark appeared in the center of the floor, increased in size as the creature took shape.

His first thought was to reach for his gun, but his arms were full. It wouldn't have done much good, anyway. Darius looked down at the woman in his arms, then back up at the hellhound.

Then he locked his jaw, and made a beeline for the stairs.

He was almost there when a heavy blow swept his legs out from under him. Darius managed to twist just in time to avoid falling on the elderly witch. She sprawled onto the floor beside him, never once waking up.

He swore, but there wasn't time to check on her. The Cerberus was already stalking towards him, teeth bared. Darius yanked his gun from its holster, raised it, aimed.

The Cerberus grew until it filled up most of the room. It lashed out, and swiped the .40 from his hands.

"Fuck!" Darius skipped backwards, at the same time searched wildly for something to fight with. Leaving wasn't an option, not with the two women still there.

His foot glanced off a loose board. He snatched it up. Then he crouched low and began to circle the hound the same way it was circling him. "All right, ugly," he muttered. "It's just you and me this time."

The Cerberus cocked its head. Then it let out a deafening roar and charged forward.

Darius let out a roar of his own, and did the same thing.

† † †

Georgia returned to consciousness with a jolt.

She tried to move, had a momentary surge of panic when she couldn't. Then she felt the bite of rope against her wrists. She let out a relieved breath. Bound wasn't good, but it was a hell of a lot better than paralyzed.

She waited until her eyes adjusted to the darkness again, then took stock of her surroundings as best she could. She was still outside. Grass tickled her hands from where they were tied behind her. Jagged cypress canopies formed black cutouts against the night sky.

Georgia bit back a curse. How long had she been out? The moon was high overhead, so it couldn't have been long. Again, she tried to move her hands. The ropes around her wrists cut painfully into her skin, but whoever had tied them clearly wasn't an expert. She could already feel the knots starting to slip.

Wait. Knots. Rope. Someone had tied her up. Fresh dread bloomed in her belly.

The sweet, elusive aroma of lily-of-the-valley teased her senses. Georgia tensed. A voice she knew all too well spoke behind her.

"Welcome, sister. I've been waiting for you."

Georgia's heart plummeted. She had to swallow twice before she could answer. "Ellen." Her voice came out a croak. "You're alive."

She ached to be happy. Instead, the hole in her chest threatened to swallow her. If Ellen was alive, that meant only one thing.

All the things she'd been so loathe to believe. They were all true.

Footsteps crunched in the grass as Ellen walked around to stand in front of her. Georgia drank in the sight of the sharp, familiar face and drew a shaky breath. Even after everything, it was good to see her.

A bitter taste filled her mouth. Fuck, she was such a colossal sap.

She heaved herself into a sitting position and glared up at her. "Whatever you're planning, it's not going to work."

"If you're here, it's already worked." Ellen's expression wavered. "I never wanted to hurt you. I hope you know that."

"But you're going to." Of course she was going to. You didn't send a hellhound to kidnap someone unless you were planning to hurt them. But for some reason, she needed to hear Ellen say it.

"I'm sorry." Ellen rubbed her arms. "It's complicated. I need something from you, Georgia." She paused. "I need everything from you, actually."

She scanned the darkness around them. Georgia sat frozen. Gradually, the full meaning of what the other woman had said sunk in. "You're not just going to hurt me," she said slowly. "You're going to kill me."

Ellen didn't answer. That itself was all the answer Georgia needed. Her mind churned. She needed to get up, get untied. She was here for a reason. She'd come to stop Ellen. She still had a job to do.

But it was as if her will had turned to stone. She couldn't move, didn't even want to, really. Her stomach felt like lead. In the entire San Francisco Guild, there was only one witch she'd ever trusted implicitly. One witch who had seen past her family and her mistakes, who'd made her believe she still possessed something worth saving.

Georgia's tongue felt thick. "Was it all a lie?"

Ellen shifted. "What?"

"You being my friend. You bringing me into the coven. Were you just playing me the entire time?" Anger rose up inside her. "Look at me, damn it!"

Ellen had been staring off somewhere over her shoulder. Now, her eyes snapped back to Georgia's face. "No," she said after a long pause. "No, it wasn't a lie. You're the most gifted witch I've ever worked with. You have power like I've never seen." She looked away again. "That's why it has to be you."

"Why what has to be me?" Georgia started to move her wrists again, discreetly, so Ellen wouldn't notice. "What the hell is going on?"

Ellen didn't answer.

Georgia blew out a breath. "Look, we've been friends for a while now. Mass murder? A hellhound? The witch—the _woman_ —I know wouldn't go anywhere near this bullshit." She prayed her voice didn't betray the mess of emotions roiling inside her. "You're going to kill me. The least you can do is give me some answers."

Ellen's mouth worked. For a moment, Georgia didn't think she would respond. Then she nodded sharply. "Fine. I suppose I owe you that." She finally met Georgia's eyes. "That isn't just any hellhound. It's the goddess's familiar."

"The goddess...wait. _The Goddess_? " Georgia gaped. "As in, Hecate, Goddess of Witches? You mean to tell me you bound _Hecate's_ familiar?"

Ellen winced. "Like I said. It's complicated."

"Um, no. 'Complicated' is hooking up with your friend's ex, or crashing your boss's car." Georgia shook her head. "This isn't complicated. This is a full-blown clusterfuck."

Ellen opened her mouth.

"It's not her fault."

The voice came from the nearby shadow-line of trees. Georgia turned in time to see a familiar figure stride towards them out of the darkness. She stopped next to Ellen.

Ellen's face softened. "I believe you two have already met."

"I believe we have." Georgia fixed the new arrival with her most formidable scowl. "How you been, Abbie?"

If Abbie Davis was affected, she didn't show it. She slipped her hand into Ellen's and lifted her chin. "Ellen didn't get us into this mess." She met Georgia's eyes. "I did."

Georgia blinked. "You?" It didn't make sense, not unless... "Are you a witch?"

"No!" Abbie swiped a wispy blond curl out of her face. "God, no. Up until like three weeks ago, I didn't even believe they existed. Not real ones, with, you know," she gestured helplessly, " _actual_ magic."

"Ah." Georgia made a noise like she understood. She didn't, not yet, but a picture was beginning to take shape.

Ellen turned to Abbie. "Baby, I already told you this wasn't your fault. If I hadn't left that stupid spell lying around..."

Abbie shook her head and turned back to Georgia. "Don't listen to her." She took a deep breath. "I was over at Ellen's place when I found this piece of paper. It had a super hokey-looking symbol on it, like something out of a Nicholas Cage movie, you know? And there was some writing in the corner. I didn't think it was anything." She swallowed hard. "So I read it."

Georgia groaned, and looked at Ellen. "Let me guess. The binding spell?"

Ellen hesitated, then nodded. "I was translating it for my Mythological Studies class. As soon as I realized what had happened, I knew we had to act fast. Abbie didn't know what she was doing, so I... took possession of the creature."

"It was an accident," Abbie whispered. "All of it. Just a terrible accident."

Georgia studied her pale, drawn face. "Forest Hill. The police report has you down on a list of witnesses." She peered into the other woman's watery blue eyes. "You went there, after the massacre. Why?"

Abbie's face looked ready to crumble. "I wanted to see if anyone had...if there was anything I could do." She shut her eyes, winced, opened them again. "There wasn't."

Georgia shook her head. Pity tugged at her chest. "The Goddess is going to kill you for this. Both of you." She looked from one of them to the other. "You realize that, right?"

Ellen's jaw visibly tightened. "Not if someone kills her first."

It took a moment for the other woman's words to sink in. Georgia gaped. " _That's_ your plan? Assassinate the Goddess of Witches?" Just when she thought she'd seen everything. "You're insane. Do you seriously expect that to work?"

Ellen ignored the question. She looked up at the sky, and made a satisfied noise in the back of her throat. "The moon is in position. Time to begin."

Time to finish. Georgia closed her eyes, and opened the channel between her and Darius. A sudden, fluid rush of strength suffused her muscles. She gasped. Her nerves tingled.

She opened her eyes again, and snapped the ropes around her wrists like they were thread. Ellen and Abbie both jumped, then Ellen shoved Abbie behind her. A crystal-tipped wand materialized in her hand.

Georgia reflexively reached for her own wand. It wasn't there. She bent down and snatched a twig from the grass at her feet, infused it with some magic and held it ready at her side. "Don't make me do this, Ellen."

Ellen was already drawing from the energy around them. The crystal tip of her wand began to glow. "I'm sorry, Georgia. You said it yourself, the Goddess is going to kill Abbie. I can't let that happen." Her eyes turned fierce. The crystal glowed brighter. "I won't let that happen."

"You're insane if you think the Goddess will let herself be taken out by a mortal." Georgia siphoned a little more energy through the link. The hand holding her makeshift wand started to warm.

Ellen raised her wand, and released a bolt of what looked like pure electricity. Georgia barely had time to dive out of its way. It crackled just past her cheek. The sharp smell of ozone hit her nostrils.

Ellen advanced forward, and hissed, "The Goddess won't have a choice."

# CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

#

For one brief, glorious moment, Darius thought he had the upper hand.

He was about to swing his board at the hellhound's dripping muzzle again when suddenly, his strength evaporated. His legs turned to putty. The board slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter.

Darius swore. Georgia. If she'd tapped into their link, it meant she was in trouble. He ducked a swipe meant for his head, grimaced at the two slumbering women. He'd come back for them later.

Right now, he needed to run.

He dove for the narrow steps, and made it into the stairwell a half-second before the hound swiped at him again. Claws grazed the back of his neck. The creature huffed and growled.

Then, nothing.

Darius didn't look back, didn't stop until he reached the bottom. He flung open the door and tore back into the hallway, skidded a little when he reached the main staircase. His legs weakened beneath him. He caught the bannister and dragged himself down the stairs.

The Cerberus still hadn't reappeared by the time he reached the landing. Darius paused to catch his breath. His lungs burned, and there was a stitch in his side that hadn't been there before. He sagged briefly against the statue beside the French doors, then started forward again.

The hound appeared in front of him without warning, like it had simply stepped through a tear in the universe. Darius stopped short, a curse on his lips. He stared into the creature's yellow eyes. His voice died in his throat.

He couldn't tell if it was because of his gift, or because the hellhound was actually trying to communicate with him. Either way, he saw everything in those eyes. He saw its home, its fear and aguish at being stolen from it, the house in Forest Hill, the other witches. Georgia.

And he saw an aqua-blue house with a terraced yard and a red door. He saw a woman with russet-colored skin in a baggy bathrobe, horror etched on her face.

He saw flames.

Darius jerked back, his head spinning. The truth came crashing over him like an icy wave. Bile rose in his throat. The fire hadn't had anything to do with death magic. J's death hadn't been Georgia's fault, after all. He stared up at the hound. It stared back at him.

"Why?" His voice cracked. "Why her? What did that woman ever do to deserve you?"

The answer popped into his head. It took him a second to realize the creature had put it there.

INTERFERED.

Darius stared. At this distance, the hellhound didn't look nearly as bloodthirsty as it had before. If anything, it looked tired; a dog who had seen too many fights, and just wanted to crawl back to its kennel and go to sleep. Darius started to speak.

The hound moved in a blur, and a blow to his chest ripped the words from his throat.

He flew backwards through the French doors with a deafening crash, and landed on the small balcony amidst a blanket of splinters and shattered glass. His chest ached. He tried to take a breath. His lungs refused to inflate. Inside the house, the shadows stirred. Darius tried to roll over. His muscles twitched uselessly.

He could only watch, mute, as the hound slunk towards him. The light of the full moon glinted off its razor-sharp teeth.

† † †

She'd never had unlimited strength before.

_That's not what this is_ , Georgia reminded herself. This wasn't unlimited strength. This was Darius' strength. He would definitely be feeling its loss by now. She pushed aside the guilt that twinged in her belly. This was the plan. Anyway, he was with Dolores. Safe.

A storm of energy was coming towards her. Georgia sucked another tendril of energy through the link, used a little less than half of it to create a solid shield in front of her. She fed the remainder into her wand, and let loose with a storm of her own.

Ellen staggered back, chest heaving. Behind her, Abbie braced her shoulders. Ellen straightened again and laughed. She sounded faintly winded.

"You're strong, Georgia, I'll give you that," she called across the grass. "But what's that strength going to cost you?"

Georgia snarled. Heat sizzled and snapped in her fingertips. "What are you talking about?"

"Please." Ellen's lip curled. "Did you really think I wouldn't be able to smell the sex magic on you?" She smirked. "Tell me, does your Guy Friday really strike you as the type to just sweat out the big game on the sidelines?"

Georgia felt the blood drain from her face. _Shit_.

Ellen's eyes widened innocently. "Good heavens me. I do believe I've misplaced my hellhound." Her face hardened. "Now, where do you suppose it could have gotten to?"

Ice flooded Georgia's veins. _Shit, shit, shit._

Darius.

† † †

Again, Darius tried to get up. Again, he couldn't.

The Cerberus strode towards him without urgency. There was no sympathy in its gaze, no regret. Darius fought back a shudder. Whatever was binding it must be powerful magic. It was as though what he'd seen in its eyes before had never even existed.

Glass crunched under one massive paw, then another. Soon, the hound was crowded onto the balcony in front of him. Darius took a deep breath. Then another. If this was it, he'd be damned if he went out staring at this thing's ugly mug. He closed his eyes and thought about something beautiful.

Georgia's smirk as he mounted the Valkyrie behind her.

Georgia's dark hair fanned across his pillow.

Georgia's face, raw with pleasure.

His breathing evened. This wasn't such a bad way to go out, all things considered: Georgia on his mind. The first few bars of the Ray Charles song popped into his head. Darius felt his lips curve into a smile.

A sudden surge of power made his eyes pop open again. Darius gasped. His lungs filled. He could breathe. All the aches and pains, the invisible weight pinning him to the balcony; it all vanished. He felt _strong_ , stronger than he'd ever felt in his life.

He didn't pause to consider what that might mean. He leaped to his feet and charged the Cerberus.

† † †

Ellen was moving closer.

Georgia clenched her teeth and kept the link closed while she mustered her next attack on her own. Sweat poured down her face. Her hands felt numb and cold. She aimed her stick at Ellen. " _Incendo_!"

The tip of the stick puffed out a weak stream of smoke. It quickly vanished.

Ellen laughed. "You fed him too much energy, didn't you?"

Georgia tightened her jaw. She'd sent Darius a quick burst of strength just before she shut the link. How was she supposed to know how much would be too much? She summoned another spell.

Ellen closed the distance between them. She tapped her wand. " _Relligo_."

Georgia's muscles locked. Ellen reached out and plucked her stick from her fingers, then snapped it neatly in half. She tossed the pieces to the ground.

The look she gave Georgia was smug, but there was a hint of pity in it, too. "That's the problem with sex magic, honey: it's at its most powerful when love is present. Unfortunately for you, that's also when it's easiest to subvert."

Georgia started to form a spell on her tongue. Ellen's hand around her throat cut her short. Georgia searched the clearing until her eyes landed on Abbie. The younger woman had grown even paler than before.

Georgia moistened her lips. "Abbie. You can stop this."

Abbie's expression was grim. "I'm sorry, but Ellen was right. This is the only way."

Ellen tsked. "Look at you, Georgia: one of the most powerful witches in San Francisco, begging a _mundane_ for help? Stop me yourself." She leaned forward until Georgia could feel her warm breath against her lips. "All you have to do is open that link and take his strength. You could snap my neck faster than I snapped your 'wand'."

Georgia's belly quivered. She swallowed hard.

Ellen's voice dropped. "Of course, he wouldn't have a chance against the familiar then, would he? You've seen the way it kills." Her fingers tightened around Georgia's throat. "No more Guy Friday. Just one big, messy pile of splintered bone and shredded flesh."

Georgia squeezed her eyes shut. Tears burned in the corners.

Ellen finally leaned back. "That's what I thought."

Her fingers unclenched. Georgia sank to the ground, her legs boneless.

Ellen stared at her for a moment, then started back towards Abbie. "Summon the creature. Now we can begin."

# CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

#

He was drunk on this newfound power.

Darius seized the Cerberus by the neck and aimed yet another blow to its face. It yelped. He wrenched it to its feet and hauled it through the ruined French doors. Power buzzed in his head, in his veins. He didn't give it a chance to recover, grabbed it again and hurled it down the stairs.

The hellhound landed in a heap at the bottom. Its claws scratched at the marble floor as it struggled for purchase. Darius started down the steps slowly, with no particular sense of urgency. Whatever pity he'd felt for the hound was gone. Now, rage left him feeling oddly numb. A single mantra played over and over in his head.

J's dead. J's dead. J's dead.

The thing responsible was right in front of him. And he was going to rip it apart.

He was a little more than halfway to the bottom when the hound's ears suddenly perked up. It listened for a moment to something Darius couldn't hear. At the same time, the house began to shake. Darius caught the bannister as a violent roll threatened to pitch him over the edge.

A sound like a heavy windstorm echoed from the attic. The hound's edges grew hazy. It started to dematerialize.

"I don't _think_ so."

Darius cleared the last few steps in a single leap. He landed in the middle of the foyer. The Cerberus scrabbled backwards, its paws clicking and sliding, its yellow eyes bright with what looked like panic.

Darius dove forward, and wrapped his arms around its hind legs. "That's right, ugly. You're not going anywhere without me."

Whatever magic was drawing it away surrounded him, too. His skin burned. His body felt like it was turning inside-out. Darius gritted his teeth against the pained sound that threatened to shred his throat, and hugged the hound tighter.

The foyer swirled around him, then they were gone.

† † †

A strong wind kicked up in the clearing.

Georgia tried to shield her eyes. Her arms wouldn't move. She managed to duck her head a little, then two women materialized next to her. The wind died down as suddenly as it had arrived. Georgia lifted her head again, and peered at the new arrivals.

She would have recognized Cordelia Trimble even without the constant parading of her picture on every front page and news show for the last two days. Everyone in the guild knew Cordelia Trimble. Word was she played cards every Friday with a few key members of The Council.

Now, she lay in the center of the clearing, looking for all the world like an octogenarian Sleeping Beauty. Beside her was another woman, slightly younger, no less familiar. Georgia's jaw dropped.

Marcie Davis.

Georgia turned to Abbie. "Reports of your aunt's death seem to have been greatly exaggerated."

Abbie pressed her lips together. Ellen answered for her. "Not exaggerated. Just premature."

Georgia growled and tried to move again. The magic binding her was stronger than the rope had been. Or maybe she was just weaker. "What the hell is this? I thought it was the Goddess you wanted. What do you need us for?"

Ellen knelt beside Cordelia. "You know, a lot of people in the guild thought I was silly to study Mythology at a mundane college. They told me I would never find anything worth knowing in non-esoteric texts." She draped something around the elder woman's neck. A pendant. "It's funny, really. I never thought I would get the last laugh."

Georgia struggled to get a better look at it. "What is that?"

Ellen straightened again, and Georgia glimpsed a matching pendant in her hand. "Larimar. Lovely, isn't it? It's known as the Goddess Stone. Traditionally, it's used to get in touch with the Divine Feminine." She started towards Georgia. "Tonight, we're using it to summon the goddess."

Georgia tried to struggle, but her bindings held fast. She could only grind her teeth as Ellen looped the larimar pendant over her head. She looked down. It was indeed beautiful; pale, sky blue, swirled through with thin streaks of white. Next to it, the medal Darius had given her looked small and dark.

Ellen's fingers brushed it. "What have we here? Cheap Church talismans hardly seem like your style." She took in the scowl on Georgia's face, and her lips twisted. "Ah, I see. A gift. From Guy Friday, I'm guessing. How sweet."

Georgia barely heard her. She had turned her attention back to the other witches. "Of course," she murmured. "Cordelia Trimble is a white witch. Marcie Davis is a grey witch. And I'm..." she trailed off. A horrifying thought occurred to her. "Oh my god. That's why you organized the New Moon Esbat. That's why you went after our coven. You were trying to get to me."

"My black witch." Ellen smiled sadly. "I meant what I said. I would have left you out of all this. Unfortunately for us both, you're the only black witch I know."

Georgia choked. Her stomach felt sour. "Your own coven. Those people trusted you. Respected you. They loved you." _I loved you._

A pained look crossed Ellen's face. " I wish there was another way. Believe me, I do. But there isn't. The ritual requires the powers of a white witch, a grey witch, and a black witch."

"You can't do this." Georgia shook her head weakly. "You have to stop."

Ellen only strode over to Marcie Davis, and slipped the last pendant around her neck. Then she straightened and took Abbie's face in her hands. "You don't need to be here for this." Her voice was gentle. "You should go, baby. I'll meet you when it's done."

Abbie shook her head. "I won't let you do this alone."

Ellen leaned in and caught the other woman's lips under hers. Abbie's breath hitched. She reached up and curled her fingers in Ellen's red hair.

Georgia felt like a voyeur. She fixed her eyes on the patch of ground in front of her.

The kiss lingered a moment longer, then Ellen pulled away. Abbie retreated to the edge of the trees. Georgia looked from one of them to the other. Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach.

Ellen began to speak, words so ancient Georgia couldn't even recognize the language. She could feel the profanity of them, though, writhing over her skin like a disease. The larimar pendants darkened. A strange energy pulsed around them.

Ellen stepped up to Cordelia Trimble, reached down and grabbed her hand. The white witch's entire body seized. Her eyes shot open and roiled, sightless, in her head. Her chest fluttered as she struggled for air.

"Stop it!" Georgia screamed. "You're killing her!"

Ellen tightened her grip and continued chanting. Cordelia rasped and gurgled. Beneath her fragile skin, her veins started to glow. As Georgia watched, the glow traveled down her arm, through her and Ellen's linked fingers. Soon, Ellen's entire hand looked like it was made of light.

At last, Ellen let go. Cordelia made one final choking noise, then collapsed onto the grass. Georgia stared, horrified. Even from where she was kneeling, it was clear the old woman would never get up again.

She tore her eyes away, and stared up at Ellen. "You're a monster."

Ellen didn't look at her. "I know." She moved to stand beside Marcie, and started the same chant again.

Georgia shut her eyes as tightly as she could. Before long, Marcie was making the same awful noises as Cordelia. Georgia didn't open her eyes.

This draining—the only word that seemed adequate—seemed to go by faster than the first. Marcie gasped painfully, then there was silence.

Georgia slowly opened her eyes again. Abbie was still in the same spot near the trees, her arms wrapped around herself. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks. Ellen seemed bigger, somehow, though physically she was the same size.

She only paused for a moment. Then she started chanting again. The words sounded firmer, deadlier. She started towards Georgia.

"Please, Ellen." Dread escalated into outright fear. Georgia fought to slow her galloping heartbeat. "Just...stop."

Ellen's eyes were flat. "I've come too far for that." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm sorry, Georgia." She seized Georgia's hand.

Every cell in her body instantly caught fire. Georgia opened her mouth. A scream razed her throat, but no sound came out. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. All she could do was feel. And all she could feel was pain.

Under her skin, her veins looked like pure light. She understood what it was now. Energy. _Her_ energy. Her life force.

Ellen was stealing it.

A different kind of energy crackled through the air. Georgia scarcely noticed. Dying. She was dying. Everything began to fade...

The Cerberus burst into the clearing with a desperate howl. Darius clung to its back legs. He instantly released it and rolled to the side. Blind with panic, the Cerberus bolted towards where Abbie still stood. She shrieked.

Ellen dropped Georgia's hand and whirled towards the sound. Darius was right behind her. Before she could react, he picked her up and flung her after the Cerberus. She let out a screech, pure outrage. Then she hit the ground, and fell abruptly silent.

Abbie ran over and skidded to the grass beside her. "Ellen?" She touched her hair, shook her shoulder gently. "Baby? Say something!"

Georgia was still on her knees. The last of her strength dissolved. She pitched forward, could feel herself falling before she came to a rest on something warm and solid. She blinked. A familiar face swam into view. Darius. He cradled her against his chest.

"Hey, magic girl." His low, rich voice washed over her. She could feel when he opened their link. The sudden rush of energy, of life, made her gasp. He shushed her, gathered her closer and held her while she came back.

It took a couple tries before she could speak. "What are you doing here?"

Darius snorted. "Did you really think I'd just sit by while you went kamikaze on my ass?"

Georgia smirked weakly.

From somewhere in the trees, the Cerberus let out a howl. Georgia clutched Darius a little tighter. A chill rippled down her spine. The air around them seemed to grow colder. The night darkened.

She looked up to see a black cloud racing towards them across the moonlit sky. Beside her, Darius let out a stunned breath. "What _is_ that?"

A scream pierced the air. Abbie. Georgia tore her gaze away from the cloud. Ellen was clawing her way to her feet, eyes fixed on the cloud, a look of unmitigated horror on her face. "No! The ritual isn't finished yet!"

The cloud seemed to gain speed as it barreled towards them. Georgia gasped as Darius threw himself over her. His heavy weight bore her into the ground. She twisted underneath him. "Wait! I need to see what—"

The cloud collided with the earth in an explosion of dirt and dark energy. Shredded sod rained down around them. Georgia wheezed and coughed, and drove her elbow into Darius' side. He swore, but rolled off her.

The center of the field was now one large, jagged crater, with the cloud pooled in the center. As Georgia watched, it gathered, focused. The shape it formed vaguely resembled a bent figure in a hood.

The Goddess of Witches had arrived.

Bright yellow eyes scanned the clearing. Georgia forgot to breathe, but The Goddess wasn't looking for her. She raised a steady hand and pointed at Abbie. Her skin was translucent under the pale moonlight.. A voice that wasn't quite a voice hissed through the trees.

_THIEF_.

"No!" Abbie's eyes widened with terror. "It wasn't like that! It was an accident! Please!"

The Goddess started towards her.

_THIEF_.

Ellen leaped forward, and shoved Abbie behind her. "No! You can't have her, bitch!" She raised her wand. Her hand glowed. " _Incen_ —"

The Goddess's hand closed around her throat, instantly cutting her off. Ellen gagged, spluttered. The Goddess drew a deep breath, then leaned forward and exhaled into her open mouth. Abbie screamed.

Ellen's eyes widened. Tiny cracks formed in her face, her neck, her arms; every inch of skin that was visible. The cracks widened. Black seeped into the fissures, wafted out into the air like thin wisps of smoke.

Abbie was crying. "Ellen! Oh god, Ellen..."

Ellen half-turned towards her voice. Her lips moved like she was trying to speak. Then a terrible rasping noise poured from her throat. The cracks in her skin erupted into blue flame. The Goddess finally stepped back.

Ellen managed a last long, dreadful shriek as the flames engulfed her. Within seconds, she was gone. A thin film of gray ash blanketed the grass where she'd stood.

Abbie crumpled to her knees. Her lips parted. No sound came out. She didn't move when the Goddess approached her. She only stared at what remained of Ellen, eyes red, tears streaming down her cheeks.

The Goddess reached out and cupped her jaw. She stroked one of the wet streaks from her face. Then she tilted Abbie's chin upward, bent down, and breathed into her mouth. Abbie whimpered.

Georgia looked away.

The sound of approaching voices filtered through the trees. Georgia jerked her head up again. Darius listened closely. He pointed towards a footpath she hadn't noticed before. "There."

Georgia planted a hand on his shoulder and hoisted herself to her feet. She took two stumbling steps towards the path. "Go back! Don't come this—"

Kristof appeared around the bend. Behind him were the same witches that had been at her apartment, plus several more. They quickly flanked him on both sides. He stepped onto the grass. "Georgia Clare. I told you I'd find..."

He took in the scene, and his voice trailed off. His gaze landed on the cloaked Goddess. His eyes bugged. "Hecate," he whispered.

In one movement, he and the other witches dropped to their knees.

The Goddess ignored them. She turned her sights on Georgia.

Darius angled his body between them. Georgia snatched his hand, waited until he turned and looked him in the eyes. "The Cerberus. Ellen said it's Hecate's familiar. As long as it's trapped here, she's not going anywhere."

Darius nodded grimly. "Do what you have to do."

Georgia brushed a quick kiss over his lips, then opened their link. She could feel him feeding energy to her almost as fast as she could reach for it. His face turned gray. His knees trembled. Georgia helped him sit down, and he sank to the ground heavily.

When she straightened again, she felt stronger than she ever had in her life. She mustered her magic. Electricity danced over her skin as energy crackled around her. A murmur went up from the witches. The Goddess started towards her. Georgia ignored them all, and scanned the surrounding trees.

There! The telltale yellow of the hellhound's eyes gleamed from the shadows. Georgia filtered the sight through her magic. Sure enough, there was what appeared to be a tether around its neck.

Leaves rustled behind her. Georgia turned to find some of the witches rising to their feet. She froze them in place with a flick of her wrist. All of them except for Kristof. He alone hadn't moved.

She turned back. The hellhound had crept from the cover of the trees. It hovered at the edge of the clearing, whimpering piteously. Its eyes darted from her, to The Goddess, back to her.

The Goddess paused. Georgia seized the moment and found the tether again. She gritted her teeth, tugged another line of energy from Darius. He gasped. She forced herself not to dwell on the pain that colored the sound, reached out and wrapped her magic around the tether. She yanked hard.

It shredded in a burst of light.

The Cerberus wuffled joyously and bounded across the grass to The Goddess, leaving a trail of scorched earth in its wake. She laid a hand on its head, and both of them leaned into the gesture. Then the Goddess straightened. Georgia held her breath.

The Goddess started towards her again.

Panic rose in Georgia's chest. This wasn't supposed to happen. She'd freed the Cerberus. Nothing was keeping them from going back to the infernal realms. So why weren't they leaving?

"Georgia!"

Georgia whirled. Kristof had risen to his feet. She raised a hand to freeze him in place.

"Try an offering!"

She blinked. "Offering?"

Kristof met her eyes. "Think, Clare. She's one of the ancient deities, and right now she's pissed as hell. Only one thing's going to pacify her."

An offering. Right. The Goddess was drawing closer. Georgia danced away. "Kristof, the trees!"

Kristof nodded and dashed towards one of the surrounding cypress trees. Metal flashed as he pulled his athame from his belt. He snagged a low-hanging branch and started cutting.

Georgia darted out of reach of The Goddess's grasping hands. She saw Kristof approach from the corner of her eye, and shifted course to meet him. He passed her a pungent-smelling sprig and a lighter. "I hope you have one hell of a prayer ready, witchling."

Georgia moistened her lips. "Here, Goddess, Goddess. I have one of your favorite sacred plants for you."

At that moment, J's voice popped into her head: _I don't need to tell you how important the right name can be._

Something firmed inside her. Georgia pressed her lips together. She struck the lighter, and touched the flame to the end of the cypress. It began to smoke, and she began to speak.

"Hecate. Trivia. Brimo. Ereshkigal."

The Goddess cocked her head.

Kristof was staring at her. Understanding suddenly flooded his face. He stepped up to her side, and started reciting The Goddess' names along with her.

"Angelos. Erodia. Adamantaea. Cthonia."

Georgia remembered the larimar pendant around her neck. She ripped it off and tossed it aside. Then she held the burning cypress stalk in front of her, and stepped forward. "Goddess of the crossroads. Night wanderer. Guardian of the places of the dead. Moon of a thousand faces. Cast a kind eye on our sacrifice."

The voice that wasn't quite a voice whispered from beneath the hood.

YOU DARE TO PETITION ME, MORTAL?

Georgia shivered. "Please, Mistress. You have the power to grant any request, if it be your will."

The Goddess inclined her head.

I DO.

Georgia bowed her head. "I ask you to leave, Mistress." She swallowed hard. "If it be your will. Take your familiar and go home."

The Cerberus growled. The Goddess took a step forward. The air shimmered around her.

PERHAPS IT IS NOT MY WILL.

Kristof sucked in an anxious breath. Georgia's mind raced. She plucked the athame from his hand, and drew the edge of the blade across her palm.

" _Abullu, naptû_."

Kristof stared at her like she'd lost her mind. Georgia ignored him. She squeezed her bloody fist around the base of the burning cypress. Flames licked at her skin. She ground her teeth and didn't let go.

" _Abullu, naptû_." The Akkadian rolled off her tongue a little easier. " _Abullu, naptû. Abullu, naptû._ "

Shadows rushed towards them from all corners of the dell, swirled together to form a yawning portal in the middle of the crater. The Cerberus started barking. The Goddess leaped out of the way.

Georgia's head pounded. Searing pain enveloped her hand. Still, she didn't let go of the cypress. " _Abullu, naptû. Abullu, naptû_."

The Goddess charged. Georgia ran at her. She opened the link one last time, pulled as much energy as Darius could afford. " _Naptû_ , _naptû, naptû!"_

She met The Goddess in the center of the crater. Macabre hands, bone and veins visible through the skin, reached for her. Georgia shoved the flaming cypress into them. The Goddess wailed as the flames caught her cloak.

Georgia mustered every ounce of physical, psychical, and astral strength she possessed. She planted both hands against The Goddess's chest, and pushed.

The Goddess let out a jarring, unearthly screech and toppled backward, arms flailing, black cloak consumed in fire. Georgia cringed. Kristof clapped his hands over his ears. The Goddess grasped at nothing, then with a final shriek, disappeared into the portal. The hellhound howled and dove after her.

The shadows pulsed a moment longer, then dissipated as though nothing had happened.

The silence was stunning. Georgia caught her breath, touched her nose, her ears. Her fingers came away dark and wet. Magic thrummed in her veins. Her muscles twitched with the last of her and Darius' combined strength.

_Darius_. Panic closed around her chest. Georgia whirled and searched the ruined clearing.

Then she saw him. He lay in a crumpled heap exactly where she'd left him. His eyes found hers. His lips curved weakly. _We did it_ , he mouthed.

Georgia nodded, her throat tight, and started towards him.

She took two steps, then two burly witches tackled her to the ground.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

#

Who'd have thought banishing a pagan goddess would require so much paperwork?

Darius sighed, and tossed his pen onto his desk. The words on the Witching Council's confidentiality contract blurred. He rubbed his eyes. He'd spent the last week since the full moon trying to decipher it. He'd had half a mind to throttle the lawyer that had dropped it off, but had restrained himself at the last minute.

No sense making an enemy of The Council. Not when, according to their lawyer, they were so close to being friends.

Speaking of friends...

Darius eyed the fresh bottle of sanctuary oil on the corner of his desk. A peace offering from Bez. He hadn't seen her since the last time they spoke. He'd almost resigned himself to the fact that he'd have to eventually, when Daniel mentioned in a passing comment that she'd quit her job at the Lounge. Apparently she was headed to the mountains to "find herself".

Must be a witch thing.

Darius left the sanctuary oil where it was. He hadn't opened it, hadn't even touched it since he came in to work and found it on his desk. Shielding had become second nature, something he did without even thinking about. Like brushing his teeth in the morning. Like breathing.

He tried to focus back on the contract, sighed again. It was dense with legalese, but that wasn't the problem.

It had been nearly a week since he'd heard from Georgia. The last he'd seen of her, The Council's goons had been marching her away. The first couple days, he'd been too sapped to do anything about it. Then one morning, he'd woken up feeling just like his old self.

After that, he'd gone to every floating club in the city, worked every witch he knew for information. The story came out piecemeal. There'd been a trial—words like "trial of the century" were used. Evidence had been presented, and Kristof had come forward as a character witness. Georgia had been exonerated.

Then she'd simply disappeared.

His check had arrived in the mail: time and expenses, written in Georgia's neat, no-nonsense handwriting. But never a phone call. Not even a goddamn postcard. It shouldn't have bothered him. He didn't know why he'd thought he would hear from her again.

Darius scowled. The entire thing chafed like hell.

The newscaster's voice on the radio snapped him out of his funk. "Today we're following a development in two of the most harrowing mass murder cases in San Francisco memory."

He'd been waiting for this. Darius turned up the volume.

"Police released a report earlier today, linking the recent events in the Forest Hill and Cow Hollow districts. Dubbed 'The Werewolf Murders' because of their vicious nature, the killings have left the two communities reeling."

Darius huffed. "Werewolves, my ass."

"In an odd twist, police have also requested the public's help locating San Francisco State University professor Ellen Granch."

Darius shook his head. "Good luck finding her," he muttered under his breath.

"Initially thought to be a victim of the Forest Hill attack, Dr. Granch is now wanted for questioning in connection with both events." The reporter paused. "In other news, authorities are continuing to look into a mysterious case of vandalism at the Fuchsia Dell flower garden in Golden Gate Park..."

Darius switched off the radio and rubbed his face.

A knock on his office door made him look up. Was MacMillian back already? He wasn't supposed to be in until after the weekend. Darius took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter. "Come in."

The door opened, and Kristof strolled inside.

Darius bit back a scowl. He hadn't seen him since the full moon, either. If he was honest, he'd been avoiding him. When Georgia first told him about their...history, he hadn't thought much of it. Past was past; he knew that better than most. But seeing them work together in the park, then Georgia suddenly falling off the map...

He didn't believe in coincidences. Especially not coincidences like that.

Darius stared down at his paperwork with renewed focus. "Nice trick, that bit on the radio. Guess your Council has pull with the police."

Kristof shrugged. "We have some key people in some key positions. It's convenient."

"I bet." Darius didn't look up. "You have an actual reason for being here, or did you just want to say hi?"

"An actual...what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Kristof leaned over his desk and snapped his fingers. "Yo! Eyes up here, knucklehead. I haven't heard from you in over a week, and that's the first thing you say to me? What's gotten into you?"

Darius didn't answer.

Kristof blew out a breath. "Fine. Look, I don't know why you've been avoiding me—and don't even try to deny it, I know you have—but it's time we talked. It's about Georgia Clare."

So there it was. Darius tightened his jaw. "Don't know what you want me to say." He glanced up. "You hurt her, I'll rip your balls off."

"Whoa!" Kristof raised both hands. "Hold on. What could possibly give you the idea that Georgia and I—" He broke off. Comprehension washed over his face. "The sex magic. She told you about the sex magic."

Darius shrugged.

"Well, fuck." Kristof crossed his arms. "Would it make you feel better if I told you I was scared shitless of her the entire time?"

Darius pressed his lips together.

Kristof sighed. "Seriously, that was a long time ago, D. Swear to goddess, there's nothing going on between us. There wasn't then, there isn't now."

For the first time all week, Darius breathed a little easier. He shook his head. "Then I don't get it. Why haven't I heard from her?"

Kristof opened his mouth, but before he could answer, the door out in the reception room opened. He arched an eyebrow. "Expecting anyone else?"

"No," Darius said drily. "But apparently I'm taking all comers today." He raised his voice. "Back here!"

He wasn't remotely prepared for who darkened his doorway.

The two men chased the warmth right out of the room. They were dressed head-to-toe in black. Heavy silver crosses hung around their necks. White collars like the one Father Gregory wore gleamed at their throats.

Any resemblance ended there. Where Father Gregory had a comfortable paunch, they were whip-thin. Their eyes were cold, reptilian.

Darius froze. Kristof breathed a quiet, "Shit."

The man on the left spoke first. He was the darker of the two, with oily black hair, sallow skin, and a hawkish nose. "Darius deCompostela. I knew we hadn't seen the last of you."

Darius forced himself to breathe evenly. "Brother Benedict. Been a while."

The man's expression gave away nothing. "I take it you know why we're here."

Without a word, Kristof slipped around the side of the desk and planted himself beside him. Darius kept his face carefully blank. "I have some idea."

The man on the right spoke up. He was the polar opposite of his associate, with hair and skin even paler than Kristof's. "We've just come from St. Jude's. Father Gregory and Sister Paul give their regards."

Darius stiffened. "If you've done anything to them—"

Brother Benedict's smile was completely devoid of warmth. "Of course that's not what Brother Charles meant. We were merely stopping in on some old colleagues." His dark eyes glittered. "Rather like now."

Darius tightened his jaw. "Flattered, I'm sure. Now you can see yourselves out."

Brother Charles cocked his head. His icy blue eyes were unnervingly flat. "That's not how this works, Novice. You know the rules. You're coming with us."

Kristof curled a hand over the back of Darius' chair. "Like hell he is."

Brother Charles' lips peeled back from his teeth. Brother Benedict blinked like he was seeing him for the first time. "Ah, Kristof Front. You've healed up nicely since last we met. Such a shame, that whole business with the fire." He paused. "Of course, your kind should be accustomed to burning by now."

Kristof took a threatening step forward. Darius barred an arm across his chest. "Don't. They're just looking for an excuse."

"Maybe I'm looking to give them one." The veins in the other man's neck strained. Even so, he didn't try to move again.

Brother Benedict gave them both a bored look. "Touching though this is, Brother Charles is correct. Darius, you were given our terms when you withdrew from The Borromean League. No subversive contact, no utilization of your... _gift_."

Darius winced. Somehow, Brother Benedict managed to make it sound like a dirty word.

"Over the last two weeks, you've been observed consorting with known witches, interacting with spirits, getting into public fights with a creature of the infernal realms." Brother Benedict's lip curled. "Not to mention participating in dark magic rituals of the most debauched sort. You've given us no choice, my son. By the provisions of our agreement—to say nothing of the wellbeing of your own soul—it is our right and our duty to bring you back to the fold."

Darius sat back in his chair. He folded his hands on the desk. "No."

Brother Charles turned bright red. Brother Benedict blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Kristof was staring at him. Darius shrugged. "Your terms are, and always were, bullshit. I reject them, and you, and The League."

Brother Benedict blinked several times. "But...but...you can't!"

Brother Charles took a step forward. "We will get you back, deCompostela. We'll get you back if we have to cut through every person you've positioned to stand between us." His eyes narrowed. "Including that purple-haired witch you've been spending so much time with."

Darius rose to his feet. Beside him, Kristof shifted. Darius could practically feel the adrenaline coursing through him.

Brother Charles' gaze grew predatory. "Do it, witch. Any magical attack you leverage on us will be regarded by The League as an act of war."

Brother Benedict finally recovered. "He's right. Surely you don't want to start a war over," he gestured at Darius, " _him_."

Kristof scowled. "Why don't you come over here, and we'll all find out."

Brother Benedict gaped. Even Brother Charles hesitated.

Darius crossed his arms. "Sorry to break it to you, but the boy you were able to bully and manipulate doesn't exist anymore. Now, you will get the fuck out of my office, and you will leave Georgia Clare alone."

Brother Charles drew his shoulders back. "And just how do you propose to make us do that?"

Darius gave the man a predatory smile all his own. "Because I know you, Brother Charles. And I know The League. If I so much as smell your brand of incense, I'll out you to everyone you fear most." He leaned forward. "The Watchmen, The Witching Council, the vampire fraternities, the therians. Tell me, who do you think would come after you first?"

Brother Charles started to take another step forward. Brother Benedict laid a hand on his shoulder. "Charles," he murmured. "Not today."

Darius didn't move. Brother Charles' eyes turned from cold to glacial. He backed towards the office door. "We'll be seeing you, deCompostela."

Darius lifted his chin. "For your sake, I hope not."

He didn't move until he heard the reception room door slam behind them. Then he closed his eyes briefly. His heart still hammered in his chest. He willed it to slow.

When he opened his eyes again, Kristof was staring at him. "Well, shit. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

Darius started to sit down again. "You were about to tell me about Georgia."

"Right." Kristof took a deep breath. "You said she hasn't called you? Well, that's just it. She hasn't called anybody."

Darius looked up at him. "Come again?"

"It's been days, D. Nobody's heard from her since the trial."

Darius was back on his feet before Kristof had finished. "Where is she now?"

"Home, as far as I know. But she hasn't answered the door any of the times we sent people to check on her." Kristof's forehead was furrowed. "I'm worried, and I don't get worried. You need to get your ass over there, pronto."

Darius didn't answer. He was already on his way out the door.

† † †

So this was what dying felt like.

Georgia lay on her bed. It was the same spot she'd been in for...she didn't even know how long. Three days? Four? She stared up at her ceiling. After a while, her eyes started to ache. She closed them, and let comforting darkness wrap around her.

A week later, and she was still seeing Darius in that field; ash-faced and listless. The other witches had tried to drag her away before she could check on him, but Kristof intervened. At what point they had become friends again she couldn't say, but she wasn't about to question it. She'd gone long enough without friends.

She could still see the look on his face when he pressed two fingers against Darius' neck. She already knew she'd drained too much energy on that last pull, and Kristof's grim pronouncement haunted her even still.

I don't think he's going to make it, kid.

That was all they'd had time for before the Council witches had hauled her away.

She'd scarcely participated during the trial, but apparently it had been enough to satisfy The Council. The instant they let her leave, she'd come home, laid down, and opened the link between her and Darius again. She kept it open all night.

By morning, it was done.

She'd held out a thin thread of hope that he would call, even if it was just to check up on her. Nothing. She supposed that said everything.

A knock sounded at the door. Georgia cracked her eyes open, winced. Mrs. Ha was just going to have to wait. It wouldn't kill her if the rent check was a few days late this month. Georgia shut her eyes again.

Another knock, louder this time. She scowled, and started shout for the landlady to fuck off.

"Georgia? I know you're in there. Dolores is out front."

Georgia's eyes flew open again. _Darius_. Her heart would have flipped if she'd had the energy. As it was, it took everything she had to drag herself out of bed and down the short hallway. She unlocked the door, opened it and sagged against the frame. She could only imagine how she must look, with her bedraggled hair and too-baggy nightshirt hanging around her knees.

Darius took one look at her and swore viciously. He stepped inside and scooped her up in his arms, kicked the door shut behind him and carried her into the living room. Georgia rested her cheek against his chest. Just being near him had her feeling better than she had in days.

He sat down on her couch with her in his lap, and swept a stray curl out of her face. "Shit," he said softly. "I'd wondered how I recovered so fast."

Georgia skimmed her tongue over her cracked lips. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to check on you." He didn't seem to know where to put his hands. "And it's a good thing I did. I'm going to help you, Georgia."

She started to shake her head.

Darius caught her chin between two fingers. His bright black eyes bored into hers. "I said I'm going to help."

Georgia let her eyes drift shut. A second later, she felt the link open between them.

† † †

"Feels good to breathe again."

Darius let out an awkward humph. Georgia peeled herself off his lap, and started into the kitchen. She didn't know what to do once she got there, but she needed to put some space between them before she did something embarrassing, like throw herself at him

She opened the cupboard over the microwave and pulled down a glass. At the same time, she studied Darius out of the corner of her eye. While he did seem a bit more subdued than when he'd arrived, he looked none the worse for wear. It seemed their quickie energy transfer hadn't made any significant impact. At least, not on him.

"Thanks for stopping by." Georgia headed over to the sink. "I mean, I know you were probably looking forward to putting all this behind you."

"About that." Darius stood too, crossed the living room and joined her. "I owe you an apology."

She'd been reaching for the faucet. She stopped, turned. "What are you talking about?"

"The fire. J. It didn't have anything to do with death magic." Darius took a deep breath. "It was the Cerberus. I didn't get the whole story, but I think it killed J to distract us from the case. We were getting too close." He met her eyes. "It wasn't your fault, Georgia. And I'm sorry for—" He broke off, looked away. "I was an asshole. If there's a way you could ever forgive me..."

Georgia dropped her head. _It wasn't your fault_. The words were a balm to her soul. The weight she'd been carrying since Hunters Point lifted from her shoulders. She looked up again. "I do. Forgive you, I mean. Of course I do."

"Thank god." Darius said the words under his breath. He raised his eyes back to hers. "That's not the only thing I wanted to tell you." He hesitated. "I missed you."

Georgia's breath caught. "I missed you too."

"No." Darius took a step forward. He caught her hand. "I mean, I missed you."

Georgia stared up at him. Her voice didn't seem to work anymore.

Darius wound a tendril of her hair around one finger and tugged. She let him guide her face to his, moaned a little when he brushed his lips against hers.

Abruptly, she pulled back. "Oh, god. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I brushed my teeth?"

Darius threw back his head and laughed out loud. When he looked back down at her, there was a decidedly predacious gleam in his eye. "That's all right. There's something else I'd rather do to you."

He turned her away from him, but not before she caught the smirk on his face. Georgia closed her eyes. A shiver rolled through her. She heard the sharp snick of a zipper, then Darius' hand pressed gently against her shoulder. Obediently, she bent forward and rested her elbows on the counter.

The hem off her nightshirt flipped up. Her underwear disappeared with a yank and a rip. Cool air kissed her bare skin. Georgia caught her lower lip between her teeth.

He was back. The case was over, the hellhound was gone, and Darius was back.

The smooth, solid head of his cock nudged inside her, and she forgot the rest.

† † †

Occasionally in life, things worked out.

Darius readjusted his jeans and watched while Georgia grabbed them each a beer. Her legs shook a little on the way back from the refrigerator. His lips twitched.

"I saw that. Wipe that smug look off your face, deCompostela. I've been lying in bed all week, that's all."

Darius accepted the Corona she handed him, and tried to do as she'd ordered. No use. Every time he tried to quit grinning, his smile only widened.

Georgia rolled her eyes and popped the lid off her beer. She handed him the bottle opener and took a sip. Her eyes found his. "So, what now? Are we really going to try this?"

Darius opened his own bottle and drank too. "I think we are."

Georgia opened her mouth. At that moment, the chorus of _Witchy Woman_ pealed out from her phone. Darius snorted into his beer.

Georgia tipped up her nose and gave a superior sniff. "It's the Eagles," she said. "Everybody loves the Eagles."

"I didn't say I don't love the Eagles." Darius paused. "Should you get that?"

Georgia shrugged.

The ringing stopped. Neither of them spoke for a moment, simply sipped their beers in companionable silence. Then the phone buzzed, and _Witchy Woman_ echoed through the apartment again.

Georgia blew out a breath. Darius arched an eyebrow. "Could be important."

She growled, but stalked over to where the phone was plugged in on the counter. She yanked out the charger, and answered. "This better be good."

Darius sipped his beer and waited. She listened for a moment without speaking. Her eyebrows notched steadily upward.

"You don't say. Castro? No, I've never heard of that kind of magic that far from the water before. But what does that have to do with—" She stopped, listened some more. Her lips parted. "They asked for me specifically? You told them who I was, right?"

Darius took another sip of beer.

Georgia stared at him, eyes wide. She turned her attention back to the caller. "I mean, sure, I guess I could take a look. I'll be right over."

She hung up and set her phone down, then leaned heavily against the counter. Darius waited. She didn't speak. A strange expression wavered over her face.

He cleared his throat. "Anything good?"

Georgia blinked, then shook her head. "That was Kristof. Apparently there's some weird shit going on in The Castro—well, weirder than usual. Looks like it's some kind of magic."

Darius searched her face. "And?"

"And...The Council wants me to take a poke around. See if I can find any 'clues'." She put the word in air quotes. "Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?"

Darius lifted a shoulder, dropped it again. "You ask me, sounds like you could use the services of a psychic detective."

It was Georgia's turn to arch an eyebrow.

He shrugged. "I'm also armed."

She snorted and set her phone back on the counter. "In that case, you're hired."

He grinned. "Your ride or mine?"

"You don't have a ride."

"Yours, then." Darius stepped forward and boxed her against the counter. Georgia's eyes flared, then he covered her lips with his. Her groan disappeared into his mouth. Her knees sagged.

He stepped back and studied his handiwork. Georgia's lips faintly bruised, her eyes dark and bright. She huffed. "I can't believe you did that. I have fucking gremlins growing on my teeth."

"Tasted fine to me." Better than fine. She tasted like home. Darius hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and rocked back on his heels. "But then, I'd kiss you even if you'd eaten a whole head of garlic first. People make all kinds of sacrifices for the ones they love."

For a brief moment, he was afraid he'd said too much. But then a brilliant smile flooded her face, and he forgot why he'd ever been worried. She pulled his head down. "I love you too, deCompostela."

Her voice was light, but the look in her eyes was utterly serious. Darius' chest swelled. Before he could say anything else, she kissed him again. He parted his lips. Her tongue grazed his.

They broke apart with mutual groans. Georgia slid out from between him and the counter, a flush high in her cheeks. "I need to get ready before I forget why the hell we're leaving."

Darius smirked. He lolled around the living room while she showered and dressed. She emerged more-or-less put together, and he trailed her out into the hall. She strode towards the elevator, head high, shoulders back.

He was about to follow when the air shimmered beside him. He recognized the My Little Ponies shirt immediately. The rest of the familiar little figure took shape. A small, plaintive face looked up at him.

Darius hesitated. The little ghost gave him a shy smile and reached up her hand. He caught his breath.

He'd spent his entire life running from this moment. Not wanting to help. Not knowing how. He hesitated a second longer, then placed his hand in hers. Her skin was cool and ethereal, like a wisp of fog. He almost convinced himself he could see her eyes this time, see the trust and hope in them. He didn't deserve either. Not even a little bit.

Maybe that was why they called it a gift.

The girl's features relaxed. A white light started to glow in her chest. It grew brighter, brighter. Darius held her hand as it spread outward. Her smile widened.

Then she was gone.

Darius swallowed hard. "So long, Madison," he murmured. "Rest in peace, baby girl."

Georgia was already at the elevator. Darius stared after her, and swallowed again. His chest felt oddly tight, too full of too many different things. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling.

At last, he picked up the pace. "Hey! Wait up."

# After

South Park, San Francisco

Later...

#

Grace Alan stalked away from Cross Your Teas, teeth clenched against the tears that stung the corners of her eyes.

The fight she'd just had with Lena stung far worse. Grace's chest ached. To think she'd actually believed things could be different, that _she_ could be different. So much had changed over the past few years... or so she'd thought.

Grace jammed her hands into her pockets and tucked her head down. She might have only been a child at the time, but she could still see the looks on her parents' faces when they'd first realized what she was. _Psychic vampire._ The revelation had rocked their world. Their devastation had shaped hers.

She'd been a teenager when she finally cut ties with her family. A lonely, confused teenager, who just wanted someone to tell her she wasn't a freak.

Except of course she was.

She'd worked so hard; managed her energy, controlled her flares. She knew better than to think she could change who she was, but at least she didn't unintentionally drain people whenever she walked into a crowded room. Working for her big sister had been the final test, her last chance to prove to herself and everyone else she wasn't the monster they all thought she was.

Predictably, she'd gone and fucked that up, too.

Somewhere downtown, a siren started up. The high-pitched wail echoed off the buildings, making it sound like it was coming from a hundred different directions at once. Grace pulled her jacket a little tighter. She'd taken a different way home than usual, and this street was darker than she'd anticipated. Years of graffiti covered the walls of the buildings around her. Normally she'd appreciate the artistry. Tonight, the effect was jarring, weird.

The rapid pit-pat of footsteps bounced off the surrounding brick. Grace's pulse leaped, but the sound quickly died down again. She quickened her pace anyway, at the same time tried to shake off the sense of foreboding that crept over her. She'd walked down more dangerous alleys than this since moving to the Tenderloin, but she couldn't remember ever being this jumpy.

Behind her, something skidded on a patch of loose gravel. Grace whirled, her heart in her throat. The alley was empty. Heart racing, she turned back around and picked up the pace yet again. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Goosebumps rushed over her skin. She'd been down too many dark alleys not to recognize what her body was trying to tell her.

Somehow, even if she couldn't see them, someone was following her.

She took a deep, readying breath, and broke into a run.

The end of the alley loomed up ahead. She could see the glow from the stoplights, flashes of red and green and yellow all blending together. Relief flowed through her muscles. Most of the monsters in the city—human and non-human alike—preferred to do their business in the shadows. She'd be safe once she got to the street.

She never made it.

The first whiff of exhaust had barely tickled her nostrils when a sharp pain in her scalp jerked her up short. Grace screamed. She twisted, jerked. Whoever had her by the hair tightened their grip. Tears sprang to her eyes, spilled down her cheeks.

A harsh voice she didn't recognize spoke into her ear. "Stop fighting. This will be over quick."

Terror and shock turned her blood to ice. Her attacker spun her around and slammed her against the wall. Pain radiated through her skull. Grace choked on the bile that rose up the back of her throat. She thrashed wildly, but all she managed to hit was air.

"I said stop fighting."

The man hauled her back, then slammed her face into the wall again. Bones crunched in her cheek. Something wet trickled from her nose. Grace tried to gasp, but it felt like her lungs had collapsed. Behind her, she heard the familiar _snick_ of a zipper. The bottom plummeted out of her stomach.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Grace struggled to make sense of her situation. This sort of thing happened to other people. Mundane people. Her entire life, she'd been schooled on how to deal with monsters— _actual_ monsters, not those of the variety that now had her in its grasp.

In one last, desperate move, she lashed back with the heel of her boot. She was rewarded with a strangled, furious yelp, and the hand in her hair loosened.

For a moment, she thought she was saved. Before she could rally, however, the hand tightened again. Her head wrenched back. The harsh voice was back in her ear. " _Bitch_."

White-hot pain sliced across her throat.

Grace coughed. The hand disappeared from her hair, and she rocked forward. The ground felt like it was moving. She slumped forward, slid down the wall. In front of her, the lights from the street grew blurry. Rapid footsteps echoed in the distance as her attacker once again vanished into the night.

"Grace?"

Grace blinked. She knew that voice. Asher. What the hell was Asher doing here? She tried to ask him, but her voice didn't seem to want to work.

More footsteps echoed around her, then Asher's scuffed motorcycle boots came into view. "Grace—oh, fuck."

His voice sent afresh flood of ice through her veins...or maybe she was just cold. She couldn't feel her legs anymore. Or her hands. Asher sank to his knees in front of her. At least, she thought he did. Was the alley getting darker? Grace coughed again and slumped forward.

Asher caught her. She hadn't seen him move, but somehow, he was sitting beside her. His body was as solid as she'd imagined all the times she'd seen him in Cross Your Teas. She'd always known he was watching her, even though he pretended he wasn't. He didn't seem like the type who normally took an interest in people. How was she so remarkable that he'd noticed her?

She was dimly aware of him lifting her head into his lap. Grace tried to speak again. Only a harsh gurgle came out.

Asher shushed her. "Don't try to talk. It's okay. You're going to be okay."

She wanted to believe him, but her vision had gone strangely dark. She felt him shift position, then something wet hit her lips. She touched it tentatively with her tongue. It tasted like metal.

Asher hummed softly. "That's it. Drink up." The vibrations from his voice were the only thing she could still feel. He stroked her hair. "Don't worry, _schatzi_ ," he murmured. "I'm going to fix you. I'm going to fix everything."

Grace closed her eyes. A sudden, piercing pain in her neck made them shoot open again. The world above her was blurry, dark colors swirling into blackness. The pain intensified. A gasp rattled in her chest.

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the pain receded. Grace sighed and closed her eyes again. The memory of Asher's voice was her last coherent thought before blackness swallowed her.

I'm going to fix everything.

# *†* †* †*

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Keep reading for short excerpts from IF YOU WERE MY VAMPIRE, A WORLD APART, and PTOLEMY'S TABLET, plus some fun bonus content...

### Excerpt from _If You Were My Vampire_ (Shadowlines, #2)

Asher Evans is a man haunted by history. Turned vampire in the concentration camp that claimed his family, he has never recovered from the loss of his humanity. Nearly a century later, the unthinkable happens: he meets a girl. Grace Alan has spent a lifetime trying to be normal. Finally, things seem to be looking up. There's only one problem.

She's just been murdered.

He should have left days ago.

Asher Evans hesitated at the corner of Third and South Park. If he was even half-smart, he'd turn around now. He'd go back to his shitty studio rental, toss everything he could get his hands on into a duffel bag, and get the hell out of town. San Francisco had made it pretty clear it didn't want him anymore.

Asher jammed his hands in the pockets of his battered leather jacket and started forward again. Another half hour wouldn't make a difference. In any case, he was already here. He was already committed.

He was going to a tea shop. At close to midnight. Looking for a girl.

It was hands-down the most ridiculous thing he'd ever done.

Asher quickened his pace. He couldn't even say what it was that had made him notice Grace Alan in the first place. She wasn't overly attractive, hadn't spoken more than two words to him each time he saw her. And she worked at a place called Cross Your Teas. Cross Your Teas. That by itself should have sent him running in the opposite direction.

In fact, he might not have noticed her at all except for the single, fascinating thing she'd done the first time they met.

She'd looked at him. In the eyes.

People didn't look him in the eyes. If they weren't too afraid of him, they mostly weren't looking at him at all. But Grace Alan had looked, and she'd kept looking. After the first few times, he'd started to wonder what it was she saw.

He'd tried to put it out of his mind, had told himself it probably meant nothing, but it was no use. Lately, that one simple question had grown from a simple prick of curiosity, to a gnawing fascination, to a preoccupation bordering on obsession.

Tonight, he would have his answer.

Cross Your Teas came into view up ahead. Asher quickened his pace. They would be closing soon, and the last thing he wanted was to have come all this way for nothing. He drew closer. The lights were still on; a good sign. He came to the large front window with the outline of a teapot on it, and peered inside.

Grace's older sister, Lena Alan, was standing behind the front counter. The drawer of the register was open, and she appeared to be counting out the cash. Then she stopped, a wad of bills in one hand. She quickly swiped at her eyes. Her mouth trembled. Asher blinked.

She was crying.

Lena visibly sighed, and started over. Asher scanned the rest of the shop for Grace. There was no sign of her. He took a deep breath and listened for movement in the back kitchen. No use. There wasn't so much as a mouse sneeze. Asher ground his teeth together.

Grace wasn't there.

Now he really should leave. He didn't have time to be trailing one girl all over the city. But even as the thought passed through his mind, he was already turning his nose into the air, breathing deep. He caught Grace's scent almost immediately; the bitter-yet-oddly-comforting scent of patchouli. She hadn't been gone long. Asher followed it up the street and around the next corner.

The darkness grew thicker, despite the thin light of the streetlamp overhead. A stiff wind kicked up, buffeting him with the sharp, briny aroma of the Bay. Asher pulled his jacket a little tighter and fought to hold onto Grace's trail. Something cold and unsettling moved in his stomach. A mere block or two over, there were wider streets, streets with better light and plenty of traffic. What the hell was Grace thinking, coming this way?

What the hell was he doing, following her?

She wasn't even his type. His type was blonde, smiling and empty-eyed. Grace Alan was the opposite of his type. Dark-haired, pensive. When she smiled, he could read the sadness behind it. And her eyes were anything but empty. When she looked at him, he got the distinct feeling she could see right through him. That alone was more than enough reason to leave now.

He had almost convinced himself to do it when he heard her scream.

Asher was running before the sound even had time to register. Grace's scent grew stronger, and with it he smelled something else: fear. Asher's chest hardened. The unmistakable sounds of a struggle pricked his ears. A second scent mingled with Grace's: male, a few days unwashed. Sweat. Arousal.

Asher snarled.

Suddenly, something thick and fragrant flooded his nostrils. Reflex stopped Asher in his tracks. Blood. His mouth instantly started to water. His fangs descended from his gums. He'd come here well-fed, but fuck, whoever's blood that was, it smelled delicious. There was a subtle bitterness to it, a smell like...

Patchouli.

Asher took off again at a dead sprint. Grace was in trouble. Grace was hurt. A small, snide voice in the back of his head questioned why he gave a shit. Asher ignored it. He slowed, ducked down a narrow, graffiti-plastered alley and took in a deep breath. The male's scent had faded. Asher squinted. Near the end of the alley, a familiar figure sat slumped against the wall.

He drew a little closer. "Grace?"

She didn't turn. In the semi-darkness, he could vaguely see her lips move, but no sound came out. Asher closed the distance between them, his footsteps unnaturally loud against the brick buildings on either side.

"Grace—oh, fuck."

Asher sank to his knees in front of her. She was more than just hurt. He reached out to touch her face, at the last minute thought better of it. His fingertips hovered over the crushed area that had been her cheekbone. Blood gushed from her obviously-broken nose. Asher trailed his gaze lower, sucked in a breath.

Her throat had been slashed wide open.

**Want more?** **Get your copy of IF YOU WERE MY VAMPIRE at your favorite ebook retailer!**

### Excerpt from _A World Apart_ (Shades Below, #1)

Private investigator Jesper MacMillian is sure he's seen it all. Then he meets psychic medium Lena Alan, and his definition of "strange" changes for good. Suddenly, MacMillian finds himself in a world where monsters aren't just real, they're hiding in plain sight. What's more, something evil is lurking in San Francisco's dangerous underbelly, and it's going to take both of them to put it down.

For Lena, it's just another day at the office.

For MacMillian, it's the beginning of the end of everything he thinks he knows.

MacMillian took off towards The Procyon at as close to a run as he could manage. His leg wasn't built for the frantic pace, and his stump pistoned painfully in the socket. He ignored it.

Finally, the familiar brick building came into view. MacMillian waited anxiously to cross the street. The light turned, and he found himself walking next to a woman in a long white dress. She was carrying a silk parasol and pushing a tram that looked at least a hundred years old. Inside it, a glassy-eyed baby blinked up at him.

MacMillian tightened his grip on his cane and jerked his gaze forward.

He parted ways with them at the door of The Procyon. Hesitantly, he pushed it open and stuck his head inside. The lobby was empty, both of people and... whatever the hell it was he was seeing.

He stepped in and released the breath he'd been holding. Briefly, he considered stepping out again, going around the side of the building to Babylon's entrance. If ever an occasion excused drinking in the middle of the day, this was it. He glanced out the glass doors.

A young man in World War II olive drab fatigues peered back at him. His helmet had a bullet hole in the front. A trickle of blood ran down the center of his face.

MacMillian turned to face the lobby again and took a deep breath. Then another. There had to be a logical explanation for all this, one that didn't involve him losing his mind. Unfortunately, he had no idea what it might be.

A door opened at the end of the marble foyer, and a man wearing slacks and a pale blue polo stepped out. He paused to smooth a hand over his disheveled brown hair, turned, and caught sight of MacMillian. He tossed his chin and started over. "Hey, man! Thought you were going to stop by the club last night. I told you I'd hook you up with a VIP booth."

MacMillian forced a smile, some of the tension releasing from his shoulders. Thank god for a familiar face. "I know, I know. I meant to, but I..." His smile froze.

The man drew closer. "Something wrong?"

Hell yes, something was wrong. MacMillian swallowed hard and stepped back. "Nothing. It's nothing. I just... Did you do something to your teeth?"

"My teeth? No, why?" The man reached up and fingered a canine.

MacMillian stared. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it was a wolf's fang he was seeing. He shook himself. Ridiculous.

The man's brow furrowed. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

MacMillian blew out a breath. "You have no idea." He shook his head. "Probably just stayed up too late last night."

"I keep telling you, come around the club and let us spoil you a little. Seriously, you know what they say about all work and no play." The man winked and grinned, revealing a mouthful of enormous, razor-sharp teeth.

MacMillian leaped back. "Jesus!"

The man's grin morphed into a worried look. "Are you sure you're okay? Why don't you come into the office and let me fix you a drink."

"No! I mean, I'm fine." _Grandmother, what big teeth you have._ MacMillian edged backwards towards the elevator. "I still have some work to do. I'll just lie down in my office."

The elevator dinged. He turned, squeezed his eyes shut briefly against the headache raging in his temples. He heard the doors slide open, and opened his eyes again.

"Jesus _Christ!_ What the hell?"

MacMillian stumbled back a few steps before he had the presence of mind to plant his cane down. Standing in the elevator was a man. MacMillian knew him well; Aloysius Paul had been his landlord for nearly four years. He looked the same as he always did: longish dark hair smoothed back from his temples, impeccable suit, fashionably mismatched silk tie and pocket square, glossy black wingtips.

There was just one glaring difference.

Black flames leaped and swirled around him, filling the elevator car. MacMillian started to raise his arm over his face, paused, and lowered it again. There was no smoke, no heat to shield against. And Aloysius didn't even seem to realize he was on fire.

He glanced up from the paper he was reading like he hadn't noticed MacMillian's outburst, and inclined his head. "MacMillian." He stepped out into the lobby, still engulfed in flame. MacMillian turned with him. Aloysius nodded to the other man. "Daniel. I'm glad I caught you. Do you have a moment to go over some numbers?"

Daniel nodded, his eyes still glued to MacMillian. "Sure thing."

Aloysius started for the office. Daniel hesitated. The look he shot MacMillian was heavy with concern. "You know, you can still take me up on that drink."

"Ah..." MacMillian worked a finger between his shirt collar and his throat. "Thanks. I think I'll just, you know, go lie down."

Daniel shrugged. "Suit yourself." He turned on his heel and headed the same direction Aloysius had gone.

MacMillian took a moment to collect himself, then edged towards the open elevator. He peered inside. No sign of any charring. The walls, the ceiling, the floor all looked normal. He exhaled heavily, held his cane across one of the doors before it could close, and stepped in.

He was hallucinating. That was all. Probably something he'd eaten. It might take a few hours—or a few days—but eventually, whatever it was would work its way out of his system. MacMillian jammed a knuckle to the "three" button. The doors dinged, and started to slide shut.

A small figure in a bright red coat slipped inside a split second before they closed. Her face was mostly hidden behind a pair of oversized red-frame sunglasses. She looked up at him expectantly.

MacMillian shifted closer to the wall. "Can I help you?"

She sighed loudly and pulled the glasses off. It was the woman from Cross Your Teas—what was her name again? MacMillian gaped. "You."

Something suddenly occurred to him. He took two large steps forward and corralled her in the corner of the elevator. Her eyes bugged. He leaned down until his face was millimeters from hers. "What the fuck did you put in that tea?"

Want more? Get your copy of A WORLD APART at your favorite ebook retailer!

### Excerpt from _Ptolemy's Tablet_ (Shadownotes, #1)

Rev. Emil Stone and his bodyguard (and then some) Misha "Puzzle" Kaslov are doing what they do best: tracking down an artifact of mystical make and unknown power. Their assignment takes them to the shores of the Mediterranean, where they find themselves pitted against mercenaries, secret police... and each other.

_Will they be able to complete their mission, or_ _will personal feelings prove too much to overcome?_

Misha was taking too long.

Emil fiddled with his mug of sahlab and peered down the street. The Graeco-Roman Museum was just a few blocks from the coffee shop where he'd set up position. Misha had gone inside nearly forty-five minutes earlier. Normally, he would have been back by now.

Which meant something must have gone wrong.

Emil closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. It didn't help. A list ran through his head of everything that could have possibly happened. An over-vigilant guard, a particularly well-placed security camera, a tourist in the wrong place at the crucial moment... or perhaps someone had noticed their counterfeit.

He shook away that last possibility. No one had ever discovered one of his reproductions before. It was a source of pride, of personal satisfaction.

Too bad he couldn't brag to anyone.

Emil checked his watch. Forty-eight minutes. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He downed the last of his drink.

At that moment, a familiar figure strode through the doors of the museum. Emil let out a relieved breath. Misha slung his beat-up backpack over his shoulder and strolled down the sidewalk towards the tea shop. He caught Emil's eye, and kept walking past his table.

Shit. Something had gone wrong.

Emil stood and left twenty piastres next to the saucer. He fell into step behind Misha. "What happened?"

"Not sure. Mukhabarat, I think."

"Damn it." The last thing they needed was to end up on the radar of the secret police. Emil tamped down the tension rising in his chest. "Did you make the switch, at least?"

Misha slowed until they were walking side-by-side. He let the backpack slip off his shoulder and opened the zipper a crack. Emil peered inside. The corner of an ancient-looking tablet greeted him.

Emil gave a quick nod. Misha zipped the backpack shut again and slung it back over his shoulder. He looked behind them. Air hissed through his teeth.

Emil followed his gaze. A trio of men in nondescript, Western-style clothes were coming down the front steps. At first glance, they appeared just like everyone else on the street. A closer look, however, and their military bearing gave them away.

One of them, the apparent leader, broke away from the other two. He trotted between the museum's impressive columns to the sidewalk and scanned the street both ways. Emil didn't look away fast enough. Their eyes locked.

Emil quickly faced forward again. "Damn it."

Misha didn't look at him. "Run?"

Emil glanced back again. The three men were starting down the sidewalk behind them. He nodded. "Run."

Abruptly, Misha cut out into the busy street. A symphonic accompaniment of horn blasts filled the dusty air. Emil swallowed a curse and followed him into oncoming traffic. Tires squealed. Brakes screeched. He steeled his nerves and kept moving.

By some miracle, they reached the other side in one piece. Emil looked back once. The three men were already starting across the street after them.

Misha looked over his shoulder. His lips thinned. He jerked his head in a follow-me motion and sprinted into a narrow side street. Emil struggled to keep up. Weather-beaten buildings rose on both sides of them, plunging the street into sudden shade. The air cooled.

Footsteps echoed off the walls around them. Emil looked behind them, swore. How had the men caught up so quickly? He didn't have a chance to dwell on it. Misha ducked down another, narrower street. Emil followed.

They stumbled into the middle of an open-air souk. Tiny storefronts lined the dusty backstreet, packed to bursting with vibrant silks, antique furniture, glistening copper coffee pots and brass shisha pipes. The heavy smell of spices and animal dung filled the air. Misha plunged ahead into the attending crowds without breaking speed.

It was all Emil could do to stick to his heels. Even with the backpack weighing him down, Misha was the faster runner. He wove through the hordes of people without breaking stride. The back of his head grew steadily smaller as he pulled farther and farther ahead.

Emil called to him, but his voice disappeared into the bustle. He looked back. He couldn't see all three men anymore. The face of the leader appeared in flashes through the marketgoers. Emil looked ahead again.

Misha was gone.

Want more? Get your copy of PTOLEMY'S TABLET at your favorite ebook retailer!

### Playlist

**Listen for free on** **Spotify** **!**

#

1. **The Feral** \- Our Broken Garden

2. **Sinner's Prayer** \- Ray Charles

3. **Witchcraft** \- Wolfmother

4. **Guns** \- All Them Witches

5. **All To Myself Alone** \- Ray Charles

6. **Black Moon Spell** \- King Tuff

7. **No Sugar In My Coffee** \- Caught A Ghost

8. **Hard Times** (No One Knows Better Than I)- Ray Charles

9. **Stuntin On The Dock Of The Bay (feat. Mac Mall, Bandaide, Rev P)** \- C-Fresh

10. **Don't Run From Me (feat. Locksmith)** \- Jarell Perry

11. **We Run This City** \- The Infamous Dollasign, KeyRingz

12. **Psycho Animundi** \- Witch Mountain

13. **Season Of The Witch** \- The Phantoms

14. **Black Magic** \- Deluka

15. **Bad Ritual** \- Timber Timbre

16. **Closer** \- Kings Of Leon

17. **Georgia** \- Vance Joy

18. **I Put A Spell On You** \- Marilyn Manson

19. **Oak Tree** \- Mirel Wagner

20. **Georgia On My Mind** \- Ray Charles

21. **Summertime Sadness-** Lana Del Rey

### Also by L.J.K. Oliva

###

Shadowlines

Season Of The Witch

If You Were My Vampire

_Hellhound At The Gate_ (Coming Soon)

Shades Below

A World Apart

The Devil's Disease

Ghost In The Machine

Shadownotes

Ptolemy's Tablet

Thicker Than Water

_The Patient Dervish_ (Coming Soon)

### Bio

###

L.J.K Oliva writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance, with a heavy dash of suspense. She likes her whiskey strong, her chocolate dark, and her steak bloody. Most of all, L.J.K. likes monsters... and knows the darkest ones don't live in closets.

www.ljkolivabooks.com

Copyright © 2015 L.J.K. Oliva

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Thank you for supporting the hard work of the author

by not participating in or encouraging the piracy of copyrighted materials.

Cover design by: Amy Mateyka

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2015

Smashwords Edition

ljkolivabooks.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

