The Necromancer's Seduction Page 2

  “Why doesn’t someone from the coven go with you?”

  “Adam was, ah, expelled from the coven.” She gave me one of those half guilty smiles. “You don’t have to do anything. You can hang out and enjoy the scenery.”

  “Somehow I’m thinking he doesn’t live beachside.”

  “Look, I don’t want to go alone, but bringing another witch might upset him.”

  I racked my brain for an excuse. I could always pull the professor card—research, papers to review.

  Her eyes pleaded. Kara never pleaded.

  I caved. “Okay, I’ll go with you.”

  She smiled and grabbed my arm again, propelling me past the buildings to the street where she’d parked her red Prius.

  I got a sinking feeling, like the last time I passed a cop driving seventy-five in a fifty-five zone. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

  Kara laughed. “When have I ever steered you wrong?”

  I responded with a snort. “You really want me to answer that?”

  Chapter Two

  I followed Kara up the narrow stairs lit by one light that flickered on and off, casting our bodies as misshapen shadows on the walls. Adam lived in a small studio above a convenience store in the part of the Haight that hadn’t quite succumbed to trendy boutiques and expensive restaurants. The occasional smell of greasy noodles traveled up the stairwell from the Chinese takeout joint next door.

  “He’s not going to hit us with a horrible spell that turns us into Bridezillas, is he?” I asked.

  She sputtered a laugh. “I can almost see him doing something like that.”

  “Why was he expelled from the coven?”

  “I can’t tell you.” She halted in front of a faded yellow door, paint peeling around the edges. Her mouth moved, forming the words of a spell. She frowned. “He didn’t finish casting his protection spells.”

  I couldn’t help peeking down the stairway. “Now might be a good time to bring in another witch.”

  “No, let’s go inside and check things out,” she said, her tone insistent. The same tone mothers use to herd their three-year-olds out of the candy store.

  She resumed her spell casting, touching a small, silver Japanese Geisha charm attached to a silver chain hanging around her neck. Witches draw their power from earth elements, needing a proper balance of at least two elements to complete a spell. Elemental power emanates from a range of things in the natural environment—hot or cold air, the soil in a potted plant, salt from the ocean. If a witch attempts a spell and can’t find enough elements around her, she can extract extra power from the charm she previously loaded up.

  The door swung open. When I didn’t follow her into the apartment, she turned to me.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said. I refrained from voicing the more significant reason for keeping my feet planted in place.

  She got it.

  She took a moment to respond, and I saw the internal debate in her pursed lips. When she spoke, she used a level tone instead of her usual fuck-you-I’m-right. “I never ask you to help me with any of the supernatural stuff. All I want is your company, all right? We’ll leave the apartment, and then you can return to your closet at the university.”

  I stood next to the staircase a moment longer, irritated. I have an office at the university and have taught countless introductory anthropology classes to earn it. With an exaggerated sigh for her benefit, I stepped into the apartment. She shut the door behind me.

  Kara planted her hands on her hips while surveying the apartment. “Did he have monkeys for roommates?”

  I smiled and took in the clothes, magazines, and books scattered about the apartment in uneven piles. A desk occupied one corner with a computer monitor peeking out of the paper stacked on top and overflowing onto a frayed thrift store couch.

  She walked around the room with her hands up, casting more spells. “I don’t want any surprises while we look around. So where would a messy guy keep his spell journal?”

  “Buried in one of the piles. Why are you looking for his spell journal?”

  She answered me with another “none-of-your-business” stares.

  “Right, more top secret coven stuff. Should we be poking around his apartment? Aren’t we violating his privacy?”

  Kara crossed her arms. “He never turned over his spell book when the coven requested it.”

  I rolled my eyes. Supernaturals eschewed silly things like propriety and other societal norms, stretching out the moral gray areas to their benefit—one of the many supe quirks that set my teeth on edge. In the witches’ eyes, they were justified in rummaging through Adam’s place in his absence.

  “I’ll go search upstairs. No wait, I’ll go check out the scenery,” I said in a dry tone.

  I knew in coming here I wouldn’t be sitting around twiddling my thumbs, no matter what Kara said, but she was right. She never involved me in supe affairs, respecting the boundaries I’d set. Maybe that’s why I’d agreed to come.

  The upstairs loft contained just enough space for a bed and an antique rosewood armoire. The slanted walls created a tent-like room illuminated by a small window. I was surprised at the made up bed and lack of piles given the riot downstairs. I ran my hand along the silk sheets. A small metal picture frame sat alone on his bedside table.

  I picked up the cold metal and studied the four-by-six of a sun-bleached blond man in a wet suit holding a surfboard. His arm circled a petite woman wearing what amounted to dental floss. His stance mirrored his lazy smile. Adam, I presumed. I sat on the bed and stared at the picture of this handsome surfer. I refused to rifle through his armoire for the spellbook. I peeked out the window at the adjoining rooftops. San Francisco has some of the best sights in the country. This was not one of them.

  “Find anything?” Kara’s voice greeted me when I returned to the bottom floor.

  “Nope.” I decided to keep the surfing to myself. “Where’s Adam from?”

  “Santa Cruz.”

  “Why did he come to San Francisco?”

  “To join the coven. His power outgrew the one in Santa Cruz.”

  “I don’t understand why someone needs to join such an organized, stifling group.”

  She flicked her gaze upward. “Yeah, we all know about your so-called independence. Belonging to a group has its advantages. You might want to give it a try.”

  “I belong to a group. They’re called humans. I may be supernatural—” I paused, the words leaving an acrid aftertaste. “—but I’m from here, not some other realm like the demons. Why do you distance yourself from people?”

  Her lips twisted in a sardonic grin. “I find that funny coming from you.”

  “You’re avoiding the question. What’s your beef with normal folk?”

  She picked through a pile of books in the corner of the room, lifting one and flipping through the pages. “I’ll have to ask Adam if I can borrow this one—good spells.” She chucked it on the couch next to her purse and turned back to the pile. I threw my hands up, resigned, when her voiced piped up. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe the normal folk have a beef with me?”

  I studied her back as she sifted through rumpled clothes stacked in one corner, lifting each article with her candy-red fingernails lest she contaminate herself. I was about to ask her to elaborate when she swung around, the lines in her face tight. “Someone’s outside.”

  Neither of us moved. We stunted our breaths, straining to hear any sounds from the other side of the closed door.

  “Maybe it’s Adam or a neighbor?” I whispered. “What if they call the police?” Last thing I needed was a police record for breaking and entering. I’m sure the Dean would look favorably upon that during my tenure review. Shit.

  She flapped her palm to shoosh me and tiptoed to the door, whispering more spells. The floorboards in the hallway creaked under rapid footsteps.

  “Crap.” She gestured to me. “Open the door.”

  She stood to my side, hand c
lasped around the Geisha, spell ready to cast at whatever threatened on the other side. I gripped the doorknob, my pulse picking up speed. I flung open the door. Nothing but empty hallway.

  We peeked around the doorjamb. Kara crept into the hall first, spells poised on the tip of her tongue. I wrinkled my nose at the reek of something dank, as if someone had left wet clothes in the hallway—for weeks. The odor tickled my brain, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint where I’d smelled it before. “Do you smell anything?”

  She shook her head, mouth still occupied with spell casting.

  “What are you doing now?” I whispered.

  “A tracking spell.”

  “We should leave. I’m not interested in playing detective.”

  “Ruby, please.” She walked down the hall.

  I groaned and followed her, knowing with each step I was crawling deeper into the rabbit hole. I could turn around and walk down those stairs, but I didn’t want to let Kara follow the unknown visitor alone.

  “This way.” She clutched my arm and turned the corner of the hall, finding the door that led to the roof.

  “Can you tell who you’re tracking from the spell?”

  “No.” A small line formed between her eyebrows. “The tracks are strange. Not like the ones I’ve seen before with this spell.”

  “You can see tracks?”

  “Figure of speech. It’s more like following a trail of mist.”

  We emerged on the roof. Kara ran to look over the edge at the rooftop below. “The trail dissipated.” She perched on the ledge, disappointment etched on her brow.

  Relief flowed through me. I wasn’t comfortable with snooping around someone’s place, and the smell from the hallway, stronger now, was nagging me. What was it?

  “How did you know it wasn’t Adam?” I said.

  “The protection spell I set at the door would have told me if it was a witch.”

  It hit me. The smell. Like rotting fish.

  “Help me look around the rooftop,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “You’ll know when you see it.” I was afraid to voice my suspicion. I hoped I was wrong.

  Old crates littered the rooftop. A couple of beach chairs sat next to a long abandoned garden overrun with weeds and rosemary. I stepped between the rosemary bushes, keeping my eyes trained on the dirt. I pushed one bush aside.

  The bush slipped from my shaking hand and smacked against my leg. I called Kara over and sat on a crate, no longer able to support my heavy limbs.

  Kara was quiet, her eyes fixed on Adam’s body. “How?” her voice broke. She took a few breaths. “Necromancer sixth sense?”

  I nodded. The last time I smelled death through a necromancer’s senses, I was a teenager helping my grandmother reanimate a corpse. I should be more jaded, stoic at the sight of dead bodies, but I’m not. I know the trauma, the angst, a corpse clings to. My breath shook.

  “He didn’t deserve this,” Kara said.

  “Does anyone?”

  Chapter Three

  The restored Victorian that served as demon headquarters towered before me, its burnished red walls conspicuous against the yellow homes that surrounded it, a sentinel overlooking the streets and park where upper class bohemians hung out with the homeless.

  I was late to the meeting called by the demons. I hated being late to anything, but today I dismissed the complaints of my inner scheduler. After finding the body yesterday afternoon, I’d passed the evening hiding out in the library to catch up on research. I’d whittled my poor nails down to ragged stumps, unable to shed the haunting image of the surfer and his lazy smile. I’d left my cell off, but when I turned it back on, the message prompt flashed with the missed, inevitable call.

  My stomach churned like a blender set at chop. I couldn’t remember the last time I was in a room filled with supernaturals or the last time I saw—surely he wouldn’t be at this meeting?

  Flat, gray clouds threatened the afternoon sun. San Francisco weather is as changeable as the seas that beat its shores. Hard to forecast, I eventually stopped trying and layered my outfits, equipped for the cold or fog or whatever the late summer cast my way, like now.

  I forced my apprehension down in one thick swallow and climbed the stairs leading to the entrance of the demon lair, as I liked to call it. I halted to admire an immense gargoyle resting on the stone balustrade. Sharp teeth protruded from its open mouth. Dragon eyes kept a watchful vigil over the park. I ran my hand on the stone scales forming its body.

  I jumped back, looked at the gargoyle’s eyes, then stepped closer to examine its skin, careful not to touch it again. Nothing but white stone. No evidence of the rippling scales that had just tickled my fingers. I rubbed my hand and continued up the stairs to face the large wooden door painted the same red as the house and carved with intricate geometric swirls and patterns. I leaned in to get a closer look.

  The door opened. “Ah, Ms. Montagne. Come in.”

  I balked at the odd man who looked like he was about to take his last breath. The smile pasted on his face creeped me out more than it welcomed me. He wrapped his bony fingers, resembling pale spider legs, around the door frame.

  “Please, come with me.” His wide-eyed stare made the blood vessels stand out against the glaring whiteness of his rounded eyeballs.

  I entered the foyer and followed him up the rounded staircase, perfect for making grand entrances. He climbed with long, unsteady strides, and I braced myself to catch him in case he toppled over.

  He glanced back at me. “The others are gathered in the study.” He lost the uncomfortable smile of a moment ago and replaced it with an amused smirk, as if he sensed my malaise at the impending encounter and enjoyed it.

  When we reached the top of the stairs, my heart ceased to beat . . . for a split second anyway. Shit. In front of me loomed the six plus feet of chiseled muscle and coiled sexuality I’d hoped to elude.

  Ewan March embodied all the hot, luscious things that made me wish I wore a bodice he could rip off. I fought the compulsion, made easier because I don’t own a bodice. Each time I run into him, I want to wrap myself in the velvet swath he drapes over the air. Every. Time. Instead, I spend the next few days in a hectic blaze trying to eject his dark, wavy hair and thick shoulders from my mind.

  “Gus, I can take it from here,” he said, his deep voice making my pulse hiccup.

  My hormones screamed fuck me, but Ewan is a demon, and I was not about to give in to said hormones. He blocked the hallway, leaving me no exit strategy.

  I lifted my chin and looked him straight in the eyes. “Hello, Ewan.”

  His grin widened, and my resolve wavered. He leaned his hand against the wall next to my shoulder and bent closer to me. All my nerve endings willed me to inch closer, but I stood firm under his scrutiny.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said. “Although I have to say I don’t like that skirt.”

  What the? I placed my hands on my hips. “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t dress to impress you.” I fingered my skirt, chiding myself for caring what he thought. I liked my gray pencil skirt.

  “You want to know why?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Not particularly.”

  “It’s too straight. It doesn’t show off the nice curve of your hips.”

  The blush started in my toes and blazed a trail up my body to heat my face. I was secretly pleased he even noticed my hips, but I refused to look at his teasing smile and glared at his neck instead.

  A mistake.

  My eyes wandered along the sleek cords of muscle forming his neck and shoulders, watching them flex under his blue T-shirt. My admiration turned to astonishment when the skin on his neck shimmered in alternating shades of gold. I flicked my eyes to his in awe and inhaled sharply at the sensuous curl to his lips.

  “We should join the others,” I said, using the words to shield me from my own weakness. I squeezed around his unyielding frame, my skin tingling at the brief contact with his chest, and made
my way toward the voices down the hall.

  I wanted to jump his bones. I wasn’t delusional. But I didn’t need him complicating my life, just like I didn’t need this meeting. After a few loud heartbeats, I heard his footsteps behind me. I told myself the sway of my hips was a result of navigating the thick carpet in heels and not a brazen display of my curves.

  * * * *

  “Our necromancer has arrived.”

  The voice belonged to the demon leaning against a large desk that dominated the study. Malthus Green. I hesitated. Last chance to turn around, except Ewan stopped behind me, the heat from his body driving me forward. He stepped around me and sat on a stool next to the bar, the sexy tease of moments ago wiped from his face.

  I spotted Kara sitting on the arm of an oversized leather chair occupied by a demon with a soothing tan and exotic eyes. Slimmer than the other demons, but no less potent, I mused, noticing the sleek muscles stretching the brown leather of his pants. Kara, as always, was dressed like she’d stepped off a hip boutique display window. I fingered my skirt again.

  “Ruby, let me introduce you,” Malthus said. “Seated next to the fireplace is Julian, one of our demon council members.”

  Julian smiled at me while he played with the silver chain lying against his chest, his lanky frame draped over an armchair. Despite his casual posture, his expression was too self-satisfied for my comfort, like he was holding a full house in a poker game and didn’t give a damn about bluffing.

  “Next to Kara is Jax.”

  Jax winked, his face welcoming me with a humorous smile. He reminded me of men I’d seen gracing the beaches in Rio.

  Malthus gestured toward tall, dark, and sexy. “You know Ewan, and seated in the corner is our werewolf representative Brandon.”

  I wheeled around. I hadn’t noticed anyone behind me. Brandon’s quirked eyebrow reached the bangs of his wavy brown hair. His thin frame, straddling a wood cathedral chair, belied the power visible underneath his worn jeans and . . . surprise fluttered through me at the sight of his priest habit. A werewolf priest?