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Well, maybe the rain wasn’t so bad after all.
He caught her checking him out and gave her a cocky grin. She quickly averted her eyes, his low chuckle following her as she opened the small door in the fence leading from the alley to the backyard of the house.
She hurried across the overgrown lawn, her shoes squishing in the wet dirt, and a few seconds later, they were finally in the house, back where it had all begun.
* * *
Tallak secured the rooms, all of them empty and filled with the stale stench of death, before going back to join Hazel in the main room where the ritual had taken place. The bloodstains still marked the spot where the witch had slaughtered the human, and on the wall next to it, dried smears indicated where Hazel had thrown her own blood to make the sigil appear.
With a start, Tallak realized she’d likely have to do the same thing again, once more slicing her wrist open to bleed for this. He gritted his teeth at the thought.
Hazel was busy with the setup for the locator spell, kneeling on the floor and drawing a pentagram with the chalk from her bag. Spell Prep 101. The memories stolen from both Estelle and Lydia supplied him with the background knowledge of witch workings—as well as many other things. Sometimes, snippets of remembered dialogue would intrude into his thoughts, or he’d find himself suddenly transported back to another time, another place, because a scent or a song had triggered a memory.
It always took him long moments to parse out whether that memory was his own or from one of his kills.
Hazel was finished with the setup, the salt circle complete, the candles lit, and a map of the Portland metro area now laid out before her as she knelt in the center of the pentacle. She took out a knife and a small jar, and he flinched, knowing what was next.
With a practiced motion, she sliced open her wrist and held her arm over the jar so her blood would drip down into it.
The heavy scent of iron rose in the air, mixed with a note that was purely Hazel—warm, smooth, with a bite like winter spices. Home. She smelled like fucking home.
His entire body locked as the scent of her blood hit him, his breathing going ragged. It hadn’t been like this the first time he’d watched her do this, or when he’d seen her skin split open and bleed as she had to pay back for the magic she’d used. Back then, he’d just been uncomfortable at the sight, the thought of her injured and in pain driving his hackles up.
Now, though… Now he wanted to close the distance between them and lick at her wound, lap up her blood, and take it into himself—and then slice himself open and make her drink his.
Mate.
The whispered urge pounded inside him.
Take your mate, make her yours.
Sweat broke out on his skin. His fangs pushed down from his upper jaw, the pain a welcome pleasure as the incisors sliced through his gums.
Take.
“Here.”
Hazel’s voice made his attention snap to her mouth. Her lips should be painted red with his blood.
“Take this,” she said, holding out the jar.
His nostrils flared.
“You need to splash it at the wall, right where I threw it last time, so I can tap into the sigil’s energy as soon as it appears.”
As if in a trance, he glided over to her and took the jar from her hand. His pulse pounded in his head, the scent of her blood making him salivate.
“Tallak.”
He stared at the dark red liquid.
Drink.
His lips parted.
“Tallak!” She snapped her fingers in front of his face.
His eyes flicked to hers, and what she saw in them must have been a tad horrifying, because she jerked back a bit, her brows drawing together.
