Witch Fire (8 page)

M
IRA SLID OUT OF BED IN THE EARLY MORNING
hours. The clock on Jack's dresser read 3:05
A.M.
Moonlight spilled in through the uncurtained window, pooling on the hardwood floor beneath it.

She stared at it for a moment. That pale silvery light called to her.

Carefully, she eased away from the bed and grabbed a pair of jeans, socks, shoes, and a sweater. The floor creaked on her way out the door and she froze in place, glancing at the bed.

Jack lay on his back with one arm flung over his head in an unconscious pose that defined his biceps. He'd pushed the blankets to the end of the bed, in spite of the chill in the room. He never wore a shirt to sleep and the position revealed his very lickable, muscular chest. Her body tightened at the sight of him.

A light dusting of dark hair marked his chest and tapered into a trail that went down his stomach, past the waistband of his cotton PJ bottoms. The thought of where that trail stopped made a hot, hard flush overcome her body.

Her fingers tightened on the clothes she held. How long would he resist her if she crawled in beside him and set her mind and body to seducing him? Probably not long. Mira had never seduced anyone in her life, but Jack tempted her to explore new horizons.

A gentle snore reached her ears. It broke the spell that had her balancing on the balls of her feet, nearly ready to return to bed. She continued on. In the living room she dressed, found Jack's wool navy peacoat in the closet and a pair of gloves.

She tiptoed into the kitchen to look for an offering. Normally, she used red wine, but Jack's wine rack was empty. Stymied, she turned a circle in the center of the kitchen, too warm in Jack's wool coat, searching for a suitable substitute.

Nothing.
Well, there was a two-liter of Coke on the counter, but that wouldn't do.

She went to the refrigerator and found milk, orange juice, and lime Gatorade. When she'd been a kid she'd always used milk. A few times she'd even used grape Kool-Aid. Annie had always told her it was the intention that counted, not the offering itself.

Not seeing much of a choice, she grabbed the milk and filled a glass with it, then headed upstairs to the roof and the greenhouse.

The cold snatched her breath away when she opened the door. She inhaled the clean, fresh air, feeling a subtle warm pulse in her chest in response. Her magick. What stars she could see through the city's light pollution sparkled in the sky, free of insulating cloud cover, which meant it would be frigid in the morning.

Mira opened the smooth glass door of the small greenhouse, flicked on the lights, and stepped into the temperature-regulated building. Jack only had a few plants in here now. Some ferns, hostas, and other things she couldn't identify. Bare planting beds circled the room. In the center was a grassy area with a fountain and a few stone benches. The sound of running water met her ears.

She closed her eyes, enjoying the small taste of life in the dead of winter. It seemed out of character for Jack to have a place like this, but it seemed out of character for him to be taking artsy photographs, too. Basically, that only proved that she didn't really know him.

She flipped the light back off to let only the moonlight fill the small room. It was enough to see by, if not see well. She slipped off her gloves and coat, laid them on a stone bench, and took her glass of milk to an earth-filled planting bed near the door.

To her right the full moon hung in the sky, silver and swollen, visible through the glass wall of the greenhouse. Normally, she did this outside, no matter the temperature, but she needed earth and that was hard to come by on the roof of a ritzy downtown apartment building.

Mira set the glass down and mounded the earth with her hands, enjoying the feel of it against her palms. Then she closed her eyes and murmured a small prayer.

In her chest, the warmth of her magick purred strongly, responding to the meditation, perhaps, or the prayer. Her breath caught in surprise. It was an alien sensation, and it made her uneasy. As she finished her prayer, her voice trembling, the magick warmed through her body. She wondered how to call it, how to control and use it.

She opened her eyes and picked up the glass.

“From my lips”—she took a deep drink of the milk—“to your bosom,” and poured the rest of the glass of milk into the mounded earth.

The door to the greenhouse opened, startling her. She dropped the glass to the planting bed. The lights snapped on.

“Mira?” came Jack's voice.

She let out a slow, careful breath. “You scared me near to death.”

“What are you doing out here?”

She gripped the rim of the bed, the metal chilly against her fingers. “Making my monthly offering to the full moon.”

“To Artemis? Is that the goddess you follow?”

She shook her head. “Not specifically. It's just a ritual to show respect for powers greater than I am and for the earth.”

He took a few steps toward her and she turned to face him. Oh, hello…he was barefoot, wearing only his dark blue pajama pants and no shirt.

His lips twitched. “You have a milk mustache.”

Horrified, she went to wipe it away, but he caught her hand. His eyes heavy-lidded, Jack reached out and slowly drew the pad of his thumb across her upper lip. The touch made her feel warm in places that had nothing to do with her mouth.

She'd never had any idea milk mustaches could be so sexy.

“How did you know I was here?” she asked.

“You couldn't be anywhere else. I have wards set on all the entrances, but the door to the roof is the only one regulated to allow you passage. I figured you might enjoy the greenhouse. I forgot to show it to you, but I see you found it on your own.”

“You could've stayed in bed. I would've been right back.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. “The door locks automatically when it shuts.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone for a while?”

She shook her head. “Aren't you cold?”

“Fire witch, remember?”

“Why do you have this place?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” He reached out in an easy, unhurried gesture and took her hand. With his index finger he lazily brushed the dirt from her palm. “There's a conservatory at the Coven. It's my favorite place there. I guess I wanted to recreate a little part of it in my home.” He looked up at her. Small laugh lines crinkled around his so-blue eyes as he grinned. “All witches have a thing for the earth, don't they?”

She cleared her throat and fought the urge to pull her hand away from his before she did something she'd regret. “I don't know. I've known very few honest-to-Goddess witches, just lots of people who labeled themselves witches but didn't really have any true magick to call.”

He dropped her hand. “All the ones I know have a thing for the earth, you included.”

It felt so strange to be called a witch. She fidgeted and glanced away. All she wanted was a little normality in her life, a little stability. Was that so much to ask? Instead she got bizarre magickal powers and a hunky witch abductor named Jack.

Her life had really taken an overwhelming and strange turn. As if cheating husbands and messy divorces weren't enough.

“So you do this every month?” he asked.

A distracted smile flitted over her mouth. “Every month since I was a child. I've only ever missed giving an offering twice.”

“I'm impressed. Why did you miss those times?”

“I had the chicken pox when I was eight. The other time was…” She flushed.

“Was?” he prompted.

“When I was out on my first date with Bryon Richards. It was the night I lost my virginity.” She laughed.

He smiled. “Come on, let's go in.”

She put his coat on, picked up the gloves, and followed him back into his apartment and down the stairs. He eased the coat off her shoulders when they reached the living room.

She paced to the kitchen and back, feeling out of sorts because her routine had been disrupted.

“Is there something wrong?” Jack asked, hanging up his coat in the closet.

“Sorry. I've been doing the same thing for so long. Normally, I drink rose verbena tea after I make my offering. I don't suppose you have any green tea leaves, dried rose petals, and a dash of lemon verbena?”

He smirked. “Gee, I'm fresh out. I think I have a package of chamomile tea someone left here.”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

He moved to the kitchen to make the tea, and she sat down on the couch. She curled up in the corner of the couch and rested her head against the cushion and listened to him making noises in the kitchen, feeling safe and comfortable. Despite the edge of awkwardness that remained between them, being in his apartment felt good. She nodded off, but she woke when he came back with two mugs of steaming beverage.

He took a drink and leaned back against the couch. “Your magick, it smells faintly like fresh linen and lemon.”

She looked up in surprise. “My magick…smells?”

He nodded. “Not all magick has a distinctive scent or taste, but yours does. I just thought you'd want to know that.”

“Fresh linen and lemon. Interesting.”

“About Crane: you have a right to know everything you can about him. I'm sorry I ditched out on an answer earlier today.”

“It's no big deal.”

“Crane's wife never went warlock. She committed suicide. His son left to live with his aunt at age ten, and Crane adopted another little boy, one with qualities he could nurture and mold.”

“He lost his heir so he obtained another. So Crane's biological—”

“You likely know the adopted son,” he interrupted. “His name is Stefan Faucheux.”

She gasped. “Stefan Faucheux?” He was always in the society pages, a darling of the media. The man was wealthy, gorgeous, and always seemed to have a movie star on his arm.

Stefan Faucheux's story was famous because it was such a compelling rags-to-riches one. As a child he'd run away from France's protective services, preferring to live on the streets. One day billionaire W. Anderson Crane had come across him and adopted him.

W. Anderson Crane…William Crane.

She closed her eyes, realizing she knew exactly who Crane was. She hadn't made the connection before. Her parents' murderer had been staring at her out of the pages of magazines and newspapers her whole life.

Jack nodded. “Crane found him in Paris. He did a good job raising him. Stefan is a powerful witch, loyal to Crane as far as we can tell, but still deadly ambitious. So you see why it's important for you to train your magick. Crane and Faucheux have more than just magickal power, they have real-world power, too.”

“If I want to keep my soul attached to my body, I understand I need to control my abilities, Jack. I thought you were supposed to help me learn.” Mira gave a melodramatic sigh. “But since I'm all sexy and you can't resist me, I guess I'll have to wait.”

He took the cup away from her and set it on the coffee table. Then he nestled his warm palm between her breasts. Mira's breath caught in her throat, her amusement abruptly gone. Her magick instantly responded to his touch, flaring in her chest.

Her body reacted, too, flaring in places further down.

She licked her lips nervously. “Uh, Jack?”

“Can you feel it there inside you?”

She nodded. “I felt it when I made my offering just now, too.”

He held her gaze while he spoke. “Your magick is powerful and you are an intelligent witch. You'll learn how to wield this sooner than you think.”

Jack removed his hand. Her skin felt cold with the absence of his touch. She rested back against the couch, and her magick withdrew, coiling back into her center. Mira willed the last remnant to stay, and it did. It sat there inside her like a little warm fuzzy, relaxing her.

He picked up his cup and took a drink. Mira noted that his hand was shaking just a little. “Tell me about Annie.”

Jack listened to her ramble on about her godmother, her childhood, even about Byron Richards. He seemed interested, and she talked until fatigue overtook her and she fell asleep there on the couch.

The last thing she remembered was Jack gently lifting her and tucking her into his bed.

M
IRA SAT IN THE LIVING ROOM, PRESSING A HAND
to the place between her breasts.

Jack's kiss, touch, his presence, his fire…something about him had awakened her magick. But it had been Mira who'd willed it to stay instead of recede.

Now, it was an ever-present warm glow, reminding her that all she'd ever thought was true about her reality…wasn't. It reminded her that she was more than she'd ever thought she was, and not quite human. Despite these uncomfortable truths, she'd grown used to its presence. It was a part of her, a constant companion.