Witch Fire (2 page)

She picked her way over the icy parking lot toward her beat-up Honda Accord and got in. The cold seat numbed her ass on contact and made Mira gasp. All she wanted was to get home, shower the greasy stink off her skin, and settle down with a TV dinner. She stuck the key in the ignition. She'd break out her vibrator tonight, too. Mr. Gorgeous had inspired her.

The car took several tries to start, but soon the tires were crunching their way over the icy pavement, out onto the street and toward home.

All the way to her apartment, the sense of being watched niggled at her. It was silly. She was in her car alone, after all. Unless the feeling came from being followed. She turned the radio up and tried to ignore her inexplicable paranoia, brushing it off as just her imagination, but that didn't stop her from checking her rearview mirror every five seconds.

She'd been having this feeling on and off for the last couple of weeks. It was ridiculous, of course. Nobody would be stalking her, nobody but Ben, maybe. But Ben probably didn't care enough about her to invest that much time. After all, Ben had moved on to greener pastures and forgotten her. He was far too busy banging his new blonde, buxom girlfriend, Trixie, to bother with her anymore.

Who the hell was named
Trixie
, anyway? It sounded like the name of a stripper, though Trixie was actually a physical therapist who'd moved down from Duluth a couple years ago. When Ben had hurt his knee last year, Trixie had spent a little “overtime” helping him recuperate. The poor baby had required extra TLC, it seemed.

Mira blew out a hard breath that clouded white in the still-cold car. She wished Trixie better luck with Ben than she'd had. Ben wasn't the type to stay faithful for long. She almost felt sorry for the other woman.

But not too sorry.

She murmured the twenty-fifth couplet of the Wiccan Rede to her empty car. “True in love forever be, lest thy lover's false to thee.” Mira sighed. Ben had been incredibly false.

She pulled into a spot not far from the entrance of her building on Randolph Avenue in nearby St. Paul. In order to feed her new fear, she made sure no other cars had pulled in behind her before she gathered her purse and made her way in, picking carefully over the barely cleared, snow-covered sidewalk.

She headed through the front door of the old building and down a short flight of stairs. There were only two apartments in the basement and very little luxury. The stairs and walls were all made of unadorned concrete blocks and it smelled a bit musty. A sole light bulb hung from a chain above her head, casting shadows, as she unlocked her apartment door.

Once inside, she took off her coat and kicked the heat up a notch. Walking into the kitchen, she reached into her apron pocket, scooped out a wad of one-dollar bills, and stuffed them into the pink pig cookie jar on her counter. She was that much closer to night school now. It felt good to have a goal. It gave her life purpose.

Standing in the middle of her kitchen, she smiled. Be it ever so humble. Her apartment consisted of one tiny bedroom, an infinitesimal bathroom, a miniscule kitchen with no dishwasher, and a teeny-weeny living room. The place was dark and decorated with mismatched secondhand furniture.

It was a dump.

But it was
her
dump. Her smile widened. For once in her life she had a place that was all hers. It might not be much, but it was freedom.

The message light on the recorder blinked at her. She walked over and hit play.

“Mira,” came Ben's voice. “I want my stereo. I've told you a hundred times, that's my—” She hit Delete. The bastard had cheated on her nonstop during their marriage. When she'd found out, she'd been forced to have a checkup for STDs. STDs! She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling that familiar mixture of betrayal and shame.

She was keeping the damn stereo.

Mira had met Ben in college. He'd been nearly finished with his law degree, and once he'd graduated, they'd married. Ben had somehow convinced her to quit pursuing her degree in psychology to try and get pregnant. He was making enough money to support them both and he'd professed to really want children. He'd landed a job at a local law firm and, while they hadn't been well off, they'd been able to make ends meet in those early years.

Luckily, she'd never managed to conceive. Mira did want kids, but not while Ben had been off trying to make babies with half the female population of Minnesota. Once she'd discovered Ben's numerous affairs and all his lies, she'd confronted him and demanded a divorce that very same day.

She had been heartbroken, but any remaining love she'd had for Ben had evaporated in the ensuing divorce proceedings. Ben had fought her every step of the way. Mira was still paying legal fees, but she'd managed to get some spousal maintenance out of him, at least for the time it took her to finish up her psychology degree.

Anger rose up in her for a moment, so severe it nearly choked her. Ben had lied to her continuously. She'd given him years of her life, her trust, and her love, and he'd treated the feelings she had for him like trash. Treated
her
like trash.

She'd been so stupid to quit school and rely on him financially. At the time, she'd been so in love with him she could never have imagined Ben would be unfaithful. She thought her life would be like the lives of her friends. Even if she didn't have a career, she'd have kids, a great marriage, be happy.

Obviously, such things weren't meant for her.

He'd taken the house in Eden Prairie. She hadn't wanted it. She'd wanted her own place, free of memories and flush with the promise of a fresh start. Besides the temporary spousal support, she'd taken very little from her old residence in a bid to create a new life for herself.

Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them away. Wallowing in self-pity was the least productive thing she could do. Anyway, she'd been free of Ben and his lies for six months and every day her life got better.

Mira glanced around her apartment a little less certainly than she had a moment before.

Right?

She chased away the flicker of doubt with a shake of her head and hit the button to play the next message. The creepy sound of a man breathing filled the apartment. No words, no voice, just the strangely threatening sound of breathing.

Mira shuddered. After feeling like being watched, she
really
didn't need prank calls like that. She hit Delete and stepped away from the recorder, feeling every hair on her body rise. Normally, she'd laugh it off, but not tonight. Tonight it made dread curl in the pit of her stomach.

Someone knocked on her door—
hard
. Startled, Mira jumped three feet in the air.

“Mira Hoskins?” The man's voice sounded muffled through the door. “We need to talk to you.”

We?

She didn't move, didn't breathe. The voice was unfamiliar. There was no conceivable reason anyone should be knocking on her door at eleven at night. Her godmother's voice entered her mind…
The Boston Strangler never had to break a lock, you know.

Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Miss Hoskins, we know you're in there. Open up. We just want to talk.”

No way was she opening that door.

Silence.
She stood rooted in place, hoping they'd go away.

“Miss Hoskins,” the voice said softly after a few moments, “let's do this the easy way, shall we?”

Mira's blood ran cold, and her heart rate ratcheted up. That definitely sounded like a threat. She grabbed the phone to call 911—dead. No dial tone. “Oh shit,” she breathed. They'd cut her phone line. How the hell had they cut her phone line?

She glanced around at the windows. Tiny basement-level windows, all of them. Almost too small to allow air through, much less a normal-sized woman.

No flight. That meant fight.

Panic making her heart pound and her hands shake, she went to a kitchen drawer, got out a knife, and tiptoed down the short hallway, toward the door, in order to peer out the peephole.

The sound of splintering wood filled her ears, and the door came flying open. It caught her square in the forehead. Blinding pain exploded through her head for a moment, then she felt herself falling backward into darkness.

M
IRA AWOKE TO A THROBBING HEADACHE.
S
HE
blinked, and the hallway ceiling came into view. Wincing at the pain, she reached up to touch her head.

Someone forced her hand down. “Don't touch it,” came a gruff male voice. “You got a hell of a knock.”

“Wha—”

He leaned over her, coming into her line of sight. Mira gasped in recognition. Forcing herself up, she crab-walked backward until she hit the wall behind her. She instantly regretted the fast movement as nausea threatened to overwhelm her. Eyes wide, she gagged and fought the urge to vomit on the hallway floor.

The man from the diner. The good-looking one. Mr. Gorgeous.

Her mind stuttered over the situation. Mr. Gorgeous in her apartment. The feeling of being watched. The men breaking her door down.

He held out a hand like she was some wild animal to tame. “It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you.”

She was supposed to believe that?

Mira glanced past him. The door to her apartment stood wide open, and two huge men she didn't recognize lay unmoving on the concrete floor at the bottom of the stairs. “What the hell is going on? Who are you?” Hysteria edged her voice, making it sound thready to her own ears.

“My name is Jack McAllister. I know you have a lot of questions, but right now I have to get you out of here.”

His words barely registered as anything resembling sense. She knew one thing, she wasn't going anywhere with this guy, no matter how gorgeous he was. Lord and Lady, she had bad taste in men!

Her gaze sought and landed on the kitchen knife she'd dropped when the door hit her. It lay between them, closer to her. Mira lunged for it. Her fingers closed around the handle in the same moment Jack tackled her, trapping her wrist. Her breath whooshed out of her at the weight of him. Darkness spotted her vision for a moment, but she curled her fingers around the handle of the knife and doggedly held onto it.

He rolled off her, still keeping his hand tight around her wrist. Mira gasped in relief from having his weight off her and tried to yank her arm away, which only succeeded in hurting her shoulder. She had the knife, but she couldn't use it.

Mira focused on a chip in the wall in front of her, holding onto every shred of willpower she had to stay conscious.

“Don't pass out,” said Jack. “You need to stay awake.”

No shit
, she wanted to say, but she couldn't make the words come. Her life probably depended on staying conscious.

“Look, I'm here to help you. Those men out there in the hallway, they've been following you. We need to get out of here before more muscle shows up. There's a lot to explain and I can't do it now. Just know that I'm here to protect you. Understand?” He sounded like he was talking to a three-year-old.

“Why…should I trust…you?” she pushed out in a breathy voice, still focusing on the chip in the wall.

“Because you don't have a choice. Now, I'm going to let your wrist go. You can keep the knife if you're so attached to it. I don't think you're in any condition to use it anyway.”

He had a point.

Jack released her wrist, and she made a clumsy lunging swipe at him anyway. He jerked back at the last second. The tip nearly grazed his throat.

“Whoa. Maybe I was wrong,” he muttered. He grabbed her arm, plucked the knife from her fingers, and threw it across the room.

Mira stared at her out-of-reach weapon with dismay.

Jack grasped her around the waist with unsettlingly large, strong hands and hauled her across his lap. She clutched his shirt. For a moment she struggled against him and then went still. Her head had never hurt as badly as this. She couldn't even draw a breath without pain. Did she have a concussion? Did she need to go to the hospital?

“Why are you doing this?” she gasped.

He stared down at her with stunning blue eyes. It seemed a strange thing to be noticing at the moment, but this was a strange situation. “I told you. I'm protecting you, Mira,” he answered in a tender voice that seemed at odds with his brusque demeanor.

Mira blinked and the light-headedness grew more intense. Jack tightened his arms around her, his expression concerned. He felt warm and he smelled sexy. Irrationally, she enjoyed the feel of him against her.

Plus, there were two of him. That made it extra nice.

Her head lolled as unconsciousness threatened.

“Shit,” he breathed. “Mira?”

Darkness.

J
ACK LOOKED DOWN AT THE WOMAN IN HIS BED.
She looked so small and fragile in the king-size four-poster. Her oval face appeared pale, and a huge bruise had bloomed on her forehead. She still wore her pink uniform from the diner and sensible white work shoes.

He had enough healing skill to know she didn't have a concussion. Once he'd carried her to the car and taken her somewhere he could concentrate, he'd ascertained that. Otherwise he'd have taken her to the emergency room, though that would've increased the risk of detection by Crane.

None of this had exactly gone according to plan.

Mira needed to stay hidden now, and his apartment was well warded against magickally prying eyes and ears. She'd have a hell of a headache for a few days, but that was the extent of her injuries. There was nothing for him to do now but wait for her to wake up.

He sat on the edge of his desk and played with a silver Zippo. The flame flared intermittently in the dim light of the room as he reviewed the day's events in his mind. He'd almost been too late. Crane's goons had almost gotten her. Jack knew he'd be hearing all about that little fuck-up from his boss. If he'd been delayed just a few more minutes, he could have lost Mira altogether.

Jack tried to imagine telling Monahan that he'd let Crane take not only Monahan's long-lost cousin, but one of the most powerful elemental air witches they were aware of, all because he'd been pulled over by a cop on I-94 while tailing her home. He'd just been trying to keep up with Mira. Woman drove like a bat out of hell, yet
he'd
been the one pulled over by the ever-vigilant Minnesota highway patrolmen.

He set the Zippo aside, slid off the desk, and walked over to study her.

The light from the hallway spilled in, making her long, tangled hair gleam. Her complexion was dusky, tanned even in the dead of winter, and her skin looked like porcelain, so smooth and perfect. It was the kind of skin that begged to be caressed and kissed. The kind of skin that yearned to be bare, to feel the trace of a man's fingers.

Jack let out a slow, steadying breath and allowed his gaze to follow the line of her slender throat to the edge of her uniform. He cocked his head to the side in contemplation. Her breasts were perhaps a B cup, likely topped with responsive pink nipples. Breasts just large enough to fill his hands and spill out a bit. Nipples perfect to explore with his tongue.

He felt like a lecher admiring her that way right now, but he couldn't help it. It was the natural sexual attraction of fire to air. With Mira it was exceptionally strong.

He reached down and brushed a few strands of her dark hair away from her face. Her long lashes were swept down over her cheeks and her mouth was lovely, full and expressive. She looked like her mother.

Gods and Goddesses. She looked like her mother.

A pang of regret squeezed his chest as the memories came. Jack rubbed a silky tendril of Mira's hair between his thumb and index finger as he let remembrances take him for the millionth time.

He'd just turned ten, and his father had deemed him old enough to observe the casting of his first circle. His father claimed that Jack had too much of his mother in him and it was time to start his training. Jack's mother had died when he'd been five, so he didn't know if it was true, only that his mother's qualities were something his father believed needed to be driven from him. They were a taint, a weakness, a botch on his father's bloodline. His father hadn't been able to force the badness out any other way, so had decided it was high time that Jack begin his education in the art of dark magick.

That day Jack stood near his father's friends and watched as four bound witches were dragged from their holding area to the ritual room in his father's mansion. One witch for each of the elements. Jack could feel their abilities through his magick as they entered. Volatile, unpredictable fire, like himself. Smooth, cool, overwhelming water. Steady, deep, powerful earth. Finally, air. Air was a magick a witch couldn't sense until he or she was smacked with the full force of its strength. Like a tornado on a clear summer day. All of the witches were bloody and beaten, yet all of them still fought their destiny.

All of them except the elemental air witch.

She knelt on her place in the circle, her beautiful dark hair flowing over her shoulders, and focused her eyes directly on Jack. He'd never sensed such a depth of sorrow in a person. She was ready to die. She wanted it.

His father's friends whispered that the woman had watched her husband close a circle the day before and it had broken her will. They doubted her sanity. Of course, they didn't need her sanity for the closing of this circle. They only needed her magick.

Even in his young mind, Jack finally understood that his father sacrificed witches on the altar of dark magick in order to gain power. These were the shoes his father expected him to fill. These were the shoes his father said Jack might not ever be able to fill because he was so weak, so tainted.

If to be strong meant to do this, then Jack knew his father was right—he had too much of his mother in him.

Jack fidgeted and wanted to look away from the elemental air witch's empty eyes, but he felt like he needed to maintain a connection with her. What he really wanted to do was run away. Jack wanted to do something,
anything
to not have to watch the circle being cast. Instead, he held the woman's gaze while his heart thumped hard and his mind raced.

His father and his friends took their places and began the ritual. The sound of chanting filled the air, making it crackle with their combined power. It raised the hair on Jack's arms and made his ears ring. The power that slid over his skin felt like dark velvet, filling him up, giving him the sensation of light-headedness and euphoria. The magick in his chest reacted by glowing warm and seductively in response, wanting to free itself.

Immersed in it, Jack felt almost invincible. As he looked upon the rapturous expressions of his father and his friends, Jack wondered what they must feel. It had to be much more powerful for the ones working the spell.

The witches making their involuntary sacrifice slipped under the thrall of the powerful, dark forces exerted over them. Their faces contorted into masks of pain as they failed to fight the rape of their magick. That's what jerked Jack from the strange, pleasurable lethargy that had stolen over him. The witches couldn't move, yet their faces showed their agony.

Eventually, they stilled and became submissive. Their bodies slackened as the spell dragged their power into the center of the circle in order to open a doorway for a summoning.

His father had explained this was how to call forth a demon, a supernatural entity capable of great power that would be tied to him and his friends like a servant for a time in exchange for the gift of the four witches, plus a favor or two. It was a beautiful thing, his father had told him, a wondrous sacrifice to bring into being such a magnificent creature.

Jack stood silently, holding the woman's gaze as the magick possessed her and destroyed her. Little by little, Jack watched the light bleed from her eyes until they were dead and glassy, until she'd slumped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been released slowly. He wanted to do something, fight his father and his friends to save her, but fear held him rooted in place. As each of the witches died in turn, the air in the center of the circle began to shimmer while the demon was birthed.

He never saw the beast in the flesh. Jack ran.

Out of the house, down the long, curling driveway of his father's mansion, past the gate, he'd run as fast as he could. The servants had chased him, but Jack had beaten them to the street and disappeared, hiding among the houses, bushes, and cars until nightfall. Then he'd run straight to Hannah, his mother's sister.

His father had never sought him out after that. He'd let Jack's aunt raise him. Perhaps he'd thought Jack was too much trouble to bother with. Too weak. Too tainted. Jack didn't know.

Ultimately, he'd rejected the name Crane for his mother's maiden name of McAllister. Once he'd turned eighteen, he'd sought the Coven and had been working for them ever since.

His aunt had raised him well and with love, much as his mother probably would've if she'd been strong enough to stick around. He'd chosen this work because of his father and also because of that day.

He could still feel emotion coiled in him like a striking snake. Hatred for his father and at himself for being his father's son, but, most of all, rage at himself for never having done anything to help those witches that day.