Page 99 of Reckless Witch

I shrug. “I protect myself. Sure, I use magic to clean house, sometimes.” Though not that often. “Who doesn’t?” I add.

“No influencing employers to get a job?” he asks. Before I can answer, he adds, “No, you sell magic.”

I don’t flinch. “We already established my trade.”

“You don’t call that personal gain?” he asks.

“I’m not using magic,” I reply, unruffled.

“Your grandmother taught you magic from childhood.”

I nod. “Of course.”

“What about your parents?”

“I never knew my parents. They left me with Grams when I was a baby.”

I’m surprised by something that looks like compassion in his eyes. No. I have to be wrong. Raith Vanderkoff isn’t capable of compassion.

“So, Miriam was your only teacher,” he says.

He says her name as if he knows her. I lean forward. “You knew Grams?”

“I know all coven leaders. She was the head of her coven—until two years ago.”

Grams knew Raith? I shouldn’t be surprised, but for some reason, I am. I pin him with a stare. “Is that how you discovered she was practicing Shadow magic?”

“If you’re asking if I pretended to be her friend while spying on her, no. We weren’t friends.”

“That much I believe.” Raith is no one’s friend. “You have no concrete proof Grams was practicing Shadow magic. Everything I know—everything I’ve learned since I’ve been here—says The Shadows are insidious. How do you know they didn’t infect Grams?” I hadn’t actually considered this possibility until now, but what if it were true? She might do things she wouldn’t have otherwise done. What fears and anxieties might The Shadows have latched onto in order to infect her so that she might practice Shadow magic? “Bottom line, you can’t prove she did a damn thing wrong. You need concrete proof, something like—like a spell book written in her hand.”

His gaze sharpens.

“The house is mine,” I hurriedly add. “You can’t stop me from living there.”

“That’s not my job,” he says slowly, clearly surprised by my sudden change of topic—and clearly still cogitating on my statement about needing a spell book.

Shit, I fucked up. I stand. “This lesson is over.” I start toward the door and get four paces before an unseen force drags me backward. I gather my will and shout, “Release me!”

I’m nearly thrown into my chair. I glare at Raith. “What the fuck did you do?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Then I understand. “The blood pact.” I promised a two-hour lesson with Raith every Friday night.

Fucking blood pact.

“Shall we begin again?” he asks.

Stony stirs in my front pocket. She’s not happy, but there’s not a damn thing she can do. There’s not a damn thing I can do.

Fucking blood pact.

An hour and forty-five minutes is an eternity when you’re confined to a small room with a stick-up-his-ass vampire—even a gorgeous one. I keep expecting his good looks to diminish as a result of his being a grade A jerk, but no go. I don’t know if that makes being here easier or harder.

Vague images of a tall man flit across my brain. A warm mouth on my body. Impressions of memories, I suspect, of when he drank my blood and—I shiver—I drank his. Memories that have eluded my every effort at recall. Aside from the impressions—and dreams—I haven’t noticed any negative effects of the blood sharing. Except maybe for the betrayal I feel as a result of his complacency in Blade’s deception. The hurt has to be a side effect of the blood pact.

It’s not like I’m friends with Blade. The Three are doing their jobs, despicable as those jobs may be. All I have to do is keep my distance for the next six months—that, and make sure the Illumina doesn’t destroy my house—my first real chance for stability.