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“I fucking know what magic tastes like,” he snarled. “This isn’t a prank call, precious, and I’m not making this up to play mind games with you.” He paused and considered. “Though, if that’s your kink, we could work something out.”
He could feel her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”
“Hold on.” He took the phone away from his ear to switch to Maps and check his exact location, not having registered the street name or house number while chasing the sorja. He rattled off the address.
“All right,” Hazel said. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Don’t touch anything.”
“What? Not even myself?”
The call disconnected.
He pocketed the phone again and eyed the murder scene. From the hint of pain lingering in the air, the human had been alive for most of the carving. The nails in his palms alone would have probably made him lose consciousness soon, but still…what a shitty way to go.
Eh. He shrugged, then stretched his neck to get rid of a kink in his muscles. Half an hour. That was what she’d said. Should give him plenty of time to get through the inevitable wave of pain before she arrived.
Except… Tension ran over his skin in fine currents, and his heart still beat fast enough that the pain hadn’t hit him. He tried deep breathing, to force himself to relax. But every time his pulse slowed, an image of Hazel would flash through his mind, and suddenly he was twitchy and restless and hyped up on a cocktail of irritating emotions he’d never signed up for.
And the pain wouldn’t come.
Damn it. The last thing he needed was to flop to the floor in front of that witch. He’d never live it down.
How to relax, how to relax…? He pulled out his phone again, opened YouTube, and searched for that video Basil had shown him. Blessed technology. At the time the fae had locked Tallak in their dank dungeon, all of this had been hard-core science fiction. He imagined his own reaction if someone had told him back then that in twenty-six years’ time, he’d be trying to calm his mind by looking at footage on his handheld phone of a cake being decorated in meticulous perfection.
And it worked.
Worked so well that within less than a minute, his breathing slowed down, his muscles relaxed—and the pain slammed into him like a freight train hitting his brain. Lights and sounds dimmed and blurred, then he fell, twitching, to his knees…
And came to his senses again staring up into the angelic face of the witch who’d been haunting his dreams for the past seven months. A face that currently bore an expression similar to dog owners discovering their pet just threw up in their shoes.
“I don’t suppose you brought cake,” he murmured.
“Did you hit your head?” It was quite a feat to make that question sound more annoyed than concerned.
He got up and dusted himself off. “Usually, I do, but this time I thought I’d change it up and just twitch a little while drooling.”
She glanced at the floor where he’d lain before, as if to check for saliva stains, and he rolled his eyes.
“All right,” Hazel said, crossing her arms, her thin, beige coat stretching around her slender shoulders with the movement. “Explain this.” She jerked her chin at the bloody scene.
He bristled, his spine locking, and he bared his teeth at the implied reproach in her voice. As if he was responsible for this shit. “I had nothing to do with this, if that’s what you’re asking,” he snarled.
She pursed her lips. Lips he did not want to nibble on. Nope. “So talk. What happened?”
He told her about the encounter, pointedly looking anywhere but at her. If he didn’t see how her skin glowed in the soft light of the small lamp on the floor, he wouldn’t have to battle the desire to lick her. Easy, right?
His eyes made a mockery of his best intentions, however, and he found himself peering at her again within two seconds flat. Yep, her skin still looked fucking lickable.
When he mentioned the witch who’d fled, she tilted her head and regarded the scene. She walked over to the mutilated human corpse and knelt next to it, careful not to step into the pools of blood. Inhaling, she closed her eyes and held out a hand as if to feel the air over the body.
Her fingers curled into a fist after a moment, and she muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “Son of a bishop.”
He raised a brow. “Who?”
Shaking her head, she stood, her expression grim. “We have a problem.”
“It was a witch, then?” He picked at dirt under his nails.
Her nod was sharp. “And she tried to hide it.”
