“Don’t worry.” The words, curt but laced with resignation, followed Naomi West out of the foliage. Her smile sharpened. “
We
can be trusted. And like it or not, we’re on your side.”
It was so similar to what he’d told Parker only days ago, word for word a
fuck you
of support, that he almost laughed.
Parker looked up at him. A world of hope, of pleading in her beautiful eyes.
“I can’t make up for Matilda,” he said.
“Matilda had a mysterious stranger routine that drove me up the fucking wall,” Naomi cut in, flicking that away. “I hate that she’s dead. But she knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. I don’t know what she had planned, I don’t care. If you want to ask her, go talk to her grave.” She jerked a thumb back behind her, somewhere in the foliage. “What I know is that shit has hit the fan topside, and until Lauderdale is wrecked, we’re as good as dead.”
Simon closed his eyes as the pressure in the back of his skull drummed, painfully loud.
Last time he’d come, there had been only two bodies on his radar. Matilda, her life fading, and Jessie Leigh.
Now he read seven. Nine, including him and Parker.
Not quite an army.
“Silas is back, and Jonas contacted us,” Naomi said, her tone gentling as much as he suspected it could. A real hard-ass. “He’s got a list of potential friendlies and a plan that may get us killed, but if it works, we’ll nock a victory on our belts that Lauderdale won’t forget. And he says he’s on the trail of something else.”
“What?” Parker asked.
“He won’t say until he knows it’s worth investigating,” she said, “but knowing him? He’ll find it.”
“What about the serum?”
“According to the comm chatter he’s monitoring, that syringe doesn’t exist,” Naomi replied. “Which means someone has it, somewhere. He’s going to find it. Him or his weird ghost friend.”
“Good,” Parker said quietly, her tone low. Intense. “I’m in.”
Simon looked at her. Studied her face, set in determined lines. Bloody obstinate woman. “Fine,” he said. “But when I die—”
“Pessimist,” Naomi snorted, and turned away. “Come back to the house to talk about these plans of yours. And Jessie wants to meet you. Again,” she added, with a subtle emphasis that wasn’t lost on Simon.
He’d met her. He’d kidnapped her.
All because he’d needed that fucking serum.
Naomi’s footsteps receded back toward the main clearing.
Parker’s eyes shone. Too bright. “You aren’t going to die.”
“I wish—”
She raised up on tiptoe, pressed her mouth to his in a kiss that threw him utterly off balance.
When she stepped back again, her cheeks were flushed. “Not,” she repeated.
His mouth slowly eased into a smile. “We’ll see,” he allowed.
“God damn it, Simon, what do I have to do?”
He hooked a finger into the knot on her halter top. “Convince me.”
Her breath caught as the material gave. “We have to go back,” she protested, even while her fingers tunneled under his shirt. Seeking his chest, and the suddenly frenetic beating of his heart.
He sucked in a breath as her palms found his skin. She electrified with a touch. Through pain, through anger and fear. She stripped it all away.
He couldn’t get enough. Didn’t want to stop, to let her go for even an instant.
Forever was an awfully long time. But maybe . . . As her dress came apart in his hands, as she pressed her body to his in willing abandon, Simon groaned.
Maybe he’d try. Maybe he’d force himself to make it, force his body to obey his will and survive the coming storm to see the sun shine on her copper hair one more time. See it reflected in her eyes.
Maybe, God willing and a shitload of luck, he’d succeed. Just for her.
Just for
them
.
Born from the genetic mash-up of lesser royalty, storytellers, wanderers, and dreamers, KARINA COOPER was destined to be a creative genius. As a child, she moved all over the country like some kind of waifish blond gypsy and learned how to adapt to the new cultures her family settled in. When she (finally) grew up, she skipped the whole genius part and fell in love with writing paranormal romance because, really, who doesn’t love hot men and a happy ending?
When she isn’t writing about things that go bump in the night, Karina designs Steampunk and neo-Victorian couture for gentlemen hobbyists and ladies of questionable reputation. She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with a husband, three cats, one rabbit, and a passel of adopted gamer geeks.
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S
ACRIFICE THE
W
ICKED
A
LL
T
HINGS
W
ICKED
N
O
R
EST FOR THE
W
ITCHES
(novella)
L
URE OF THE
W
ICKED
B
LOOD OF THE
W
ICKED
B
EFORE THE
W
ITCHES
(novella)
Coming Soon
O
NE FOR THE
W
ICKED
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SACRIFICE THE WICKED
. Copyright © 2012 by Karina Cooper. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition OCTOBER 2012 ISBN: 9780062127723
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062127693
FIRST EDITION
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