Witch Interrupted Read online

After casting him a mistrustful glance over the top of her glasses, she stalked through the hanging beads that separated the front room from the more private back one, where clients received tattoos. It was as clean as a witch’s stillroom or his laboratory. Paintings by local artists and photos of intricate ink adorned the walls, with a television mounted in one corner. During his second tattoo, he and her father had watched an old black-and-white movie, one he remembered first seeing in a theater for thirty cents.

  The restroom was small. He shut the door behind them, blocked it and released her.

  “Let me see.” He motioned at her head. “I have first aid training.”

  “Like that matters. I’m going to spell it away.” She grabbed a wad of paper towels and wet them. When she pressed them to the scalp wound, her lips pinched.

  “Don’t get be-gone into the cut,” he observed, as she dabbed herself gingerly. “It’s in your hair, and the interaction of the cloves and lemongrass with water will—”

  She inhaled audibly. “Holy mothering hell, that smarts.”

  “—make it sting,” he finished. She didn’t hide pain as well as her other emotions. “You’ll have to flush it before the heal-all will work.”

  “I’m not a baby in my first pass-through,” she snapped. “I know these things.” She shoved the paper towels back under the faucet. It rinsed the blood, turning the water pink.

  He couldn’t help himself. Nearly a hundred years of conditioning, five dealing with ferals and keepers, couldn’t be discarded in three hundred and eighty-three days. “You shouldn’t be using a simple mask in an occupation that involves blood and the public. You never know who might walk in. Blood is a neon sign to wolves.”

  “My blood isn’t involved in tattoos.” She set her glasses on the counter, bent over the sink and applied the saturated towels to her head. Pinkish water dribbled down her cheeks. “As for who might walk in, other wolves don’t get ink, Marcus. You’re the only one we’ve had in here longer than a minute or two.” Water dampened her collar as she awkwardly cleansed the wound. “Are you into pain or something, getting tattoos for kicks?”

  He’d been celibate since his initial phase of experimentation. The transformation had roughened his sexual preferences, but it hadn’t reversed them. “Not exactly. How about you?”

  He’d meant it to be a throwaway quip but was reminded, with his next inhale, of her attraction to him, lurking beneath the hostility.

  Escalating beyond the hostility.

  Was she into pain? Or into him?

  He found himself twice as curious as he had been moments ago. Curiosity didn’t stop at killing cats.

  She turned to look at him. Her pupils were dilated, her expression haunted. “That is also none of your business.”

  A clichéd line about making it his business crossed his mind. He didn’t say it. His senses gave him an unfair advantage, and she probably knew what he was reading off her. “I was kidding. I don’t care what you’re into.”

  When she humphed and twisted her shoulders, it knocked be-gone from her hair. She hissed again. “That fucking hurts. Lemongrass. Whose bright idea was that?”

  He was surprised she didn’t know. “Vernon Harrower.”

  She squinted at him. “Vern? You know that old goat?”

  Most witches did. Vernon Harrower was a region elder rumored, in certain circles, to be involved with the keepers. Marcus knew the rumor to be true. “Does that surprise you?”

  “You’re not…are you Harry Travis? The wolf from Millington?”

  “No.” Harry Smith Travis, a “coven alpha” in Millington, was a fascinating case study of how witches could run ethical tests on cognizant wolves when the wolves were volunteers. Not prisoners who’d rather bite off the witch’s hand. Harry had been the one to explain to Marcus how wolves carried tattoos and clothing through shifts. Harry and his wife, an alpha witch, had also elaborated on certain aspects of witch and wolf relations.

  The line between witch and wolf, Marcus had come to believe, was less strict than witches assured themselves. While most witches weren’t as fanatical as the purists, most regarded their hairy kindred as dangerous—as shifters who’d failed to find the strength of will to become witches.

  But were they? Wolf magic could heal in a way no spell could simulate. It strengthened, it heightened the senses, it increased athleticism and agility. As long as one controlled the aggression, how was that a failure? How was that not worth pursuing, when the power of a wolf could save a witch’s life?

  When he found that link, the keepers wouldn’t be able to touch him. Perhaps the keepers wouldn’t be able to touch anyone, ever again.

  Katie straightened. Water dripped down her face, plastering some of her hair to her head. Her thin shirt clung to her small breasts in a way that shifted his attention to sex. The dampened shirt was half-transparent, and she wore no bra. Her scent swirled around him, spicy and arousing as her emotions rose.

  Her shapely, soft lips parted. They would taste of her and blood and cloves and lemongrass. Marcus found himself stepping forward, away from the door, inches from grabbing her.

  She didn’t so much as flinch. When she spoke, it belied her sexy appearance, so Marcus was able to contain himself. “Did Vern send you here? Hell, it would be just like him to break covenant and use a wolf. Well, you can tell him I don’t care what bribe he’s offering this time. I’m never coming back, and—”

  “I’m not allied with Vernon.” Nor was he connected to Vernon any more than he was the other elders and keepers after him. Katie, on the other hand, seemed to know the old witch well. “What do you mean about going back? Were you Millington?”

  Coven affiliations were looser than wolf pack bonds, and the benefits of membership outweighed the negatives. Access to elders, trade shares, coven energy, knowledge, fellowship and the safety of numbers were among the advantages. Even though he’d planned for it, he often found himself floundering in their absence.

  “You enjoy asking questions that are none of your business, don’t you?” She turned sideways and thrust out her elbows as she twisted the faucets. The knobby joint caught him in the ribs. “Oops.”

  “Excuse me,” he said dryly. “And yes, I do enjoy asking questions. What is it you’re not returning to with Vernon?”

  A horrible thought crossed his mind. He could think of a reason outside Millington coven why she’d know Vernon and why he might want her back.

  “I didn’t date him, if that’s what you’re asking.” Anger tipped the corners of her mouth down and flattened her ears, ever so slightly. Like a wolf. Or a witch. She tousled the dry patches in her hair carefully, sending be-gone components into the sink.

  “That’s not what I was asking.” The reason that had popped into his head had been a lot more lethal.

  A witch wouldn’t have to like her employer to be a keeper. Unlike most witches, the keepers were convex. Spells that inflicted harm on others neither harmed nor backfired on them. In fact, their contorted magic returned the spell with interest, for twice the effect it would have had otherwise. They could kill with a spell, and it didn’t hurt them one bit.

  While convex witches weren’t unheard of, the keepers they became weren’t common knowledge to rank-and-file witches. Region elders across the North American continent employed keepers to deal with precarious situations. Wolves too cunning for local covens to outwit. Wolves on killing sprees. Wolves in positions of human power and influence. Wolves who knew too much.

  Wolves like Marcus. And his sister.

  This petite, lovely woman… He couldn’t imagine Katie as a killer. He knew keepers. If Katie had been one, he’d already be in custody. Or dead. Yet here he was, locked in a bathroom with her and her very wet shirt.

  In profile, the tunic clung to her breasts, outlining them perfectly. Should he tell her about the see-through fabric or just enjoy the view?

  He needed to prove he was a gentleman, someone she could work with. He unbuttoned his blood-speckled s
hirt the rest of the way and shrugged out of it.

  She snatched her paper towels from under the faucet. “Put that back on.”

  He offered her the garment. “You need this more than I do.”

  She blinked at his chest for a moment and exhaled. The gush of water from the faucet filled his ears. Then she glanced at her own chest. “Do tits bother you?”

  Since she was looking, he looked too. Her nipples were faintly visible. Her scent heated further. But he didn’t think she was coming onto him, exactly. It was more like a challenge.

  He felt the growl and swallowed it. He disliked this aspect of being a wolf he disliked intensely, the reduced control of primal responses. To challenges, to danger, to hunger. And to sex.

  Challenges and sex together? Nearly irresistible.

  “Don’t do that,” he warned.

  She inhaled. Her nipples poked the fabric, their darker color playing peek-a-boo through the floral pattern. Then she jutted out her chin. “Do what?”

  “Don’t push me.”

  “What good would it do me to push you?” She ran her hands up his chest, splaying her fingers on his pectorals. “You’re so much bigger than I am. I couldn’t…” She glanced up through her lashes, coy. “I couldn’t fight you off.”

  “That’s factual.” He suppressed the urge to demonstrate. “It’s also irrelevant. What makes you think I want to fight you?”

  “You’re a wolf. Not a natural alpha, I don’t think, but assertive.” Her cheeks flushed, a primal response she couldn’t control either. And still she taunted him. Tiptoed along the thin ice of witch and wolf relations. “It’s your nature.”

  Wolves did have a reputation for sexual ferocity. It lured some witches to stray and lose themselves to the wolf. But Katie wasn’t, as she’d told him herself, a youngling. If she were likely to be seduced by the call of the wild, it would have happened long ago. What was she trying to accomplish, goading him?

  And why did she smell so deliciously of desire?

  She couldn’t be any more perfect for his experiments.

  “I’m not particularly combative, as wolves go.” He avoided situations that would provoke him. His diminished willpower threatened to spiral him off course “I’m more of a…”

  “A what?”

  He could say he was a lover, not a fighter, but it was another cliché and didn’t describe him anyway. “A scientist.”

  “A wolf scientist,” she said disbelievingly.

  “That’s what the resume says.” He enjoyed surprising her almost as much as he suspected he’d enjoy taking her against the wall and…proving a hypothesis. “How about that heal-all?”

  “I’m not quite ready for it.” She raised her arms, slowly, to apply the sodden paper towels to her head. The wet fabric of her shirt tugged her breasts. He couldn’t help it. He looked again.

  Her nipples hardened. His probably had too. Other parts of him definitely had.

  She squeezed water on herself, rivulets trickling down her head, her neck, her shirt, dripping to the floor.

  “Think I’m clean enough now? Or should I get wetter?”

  Her dare was so calculated, he found it easier to block. With concise movements, he hung his shirt on the door hook behind him. She raised an eyebrow. His wingtips slid on the wet floor as he reached past her to turn off the faucet.

  He wouldn’t play—wouldn’t let his wolf play—dominance games when he didn’t know what the prize was. “You’re wasting water. Where’s the heal-all?”

  Instead of pouting or teasing, she shrugged. Her breasts jiggled. He had no idea why she would deliberately tempt a wolf. Sure, part of him liked it, but he needed to analyze this. As long as she didn’t notice his erection, she ought not know how much she’d affected him.

  “It’s behind the mirror, in the medicine cabinet,” she said. “The can marked Feminine Hygiene Spray.”

  He laughed, jolting her into a beautiful smile. Their gazes locked with shared amusement, but she quickly terminated the moment of connection with a neutral expression. Hopefully she was done prick-teasing. They had a lot to talk about.

  “I guess you don’t run much of a risk a human will use it inadvertently.” His stock of heal-all was in oven cleaner bottles. He dispensed most of his stash gingerly since once it was gone, it would be exceedingly difficult to procure more now that he was a wolf.

  “That’s the idea.” She opened the cabinet, swinging the mirror toward him.

  He was disappointed to see how pale his eyes had turned. How wild he looked. Damned wolf. It should take more than a provocative woman to rouse him like this.

  He couldn’t let the wolf take over. At the same time, he couldn’t let his conscience inhibit him. He had to exploit the opportunity that had fallen into his lap.

  His opportunity closed the mirror and held out a pink, flowery can. He took it, their fingers brushing.

  She turned her back. “Since you seem to know what you’re doing around magic, if you don’t mind?”

  Perhaps she’d wanted to see how trustworthy he was before accepting his help. Perhaps he’d passed the test when he hadn’t pounced on her.

  He’d always been excellent at tests.

  Gently, he touched her vulnerable nape and the fine, damp hair clinging to it. For a moment, he let his fingers wrap around her neck, holding her in place.

  She sighed so softly, he suspected he wasn’t supposed to notice. In the mirror, he caught a glimpse of her profile, her eyes closed and her lips parted. She’d caught her opposite elbows in her hands, her forearms tight to her stomach.

  He parted the wet strands on her scalp. The shallow wound oozed blood. He sniffed and didn’t notice any remaining be-gone components. All he could smell was her clean skin, her shampoo and a faint swirl of need. “Here goes.”

  He depressed the button. Spray misted. His ears filled with pressure before popping, a sign magic was in use. The cut knit itself before his eyes.

  “That’s better.” She started patting her front with dry paper towels and no monkey business. “I’ll, ah, borrow your shirt, if you don’t mind.”

  She had just started to button it when the door flew open, banging Marcus in the ass.

  Zhang Li aimed a gun at his head, his arm steady. “I let you come here, dog, because I felt sorry for you. But you’ve hurt my daughter. Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

  Chapter Three

  Katie leaped sideways as Marcus backed away from her father. She didn’t want Marcus to use her as a hostage. “Ba, he knows about us.”

  “Figured that out.” Dad kicked the door when it swung back, never losing his line of sight. A bullet wouldn’t stop a wolf Marcus’s size unless it was right between the eyes.

  Her father, canny as always, remained out of Marcus’s reach and waved for Katie to exit the bathroom. She hastened to comply. Dad’s aim was shit.

  “I told you to get on your knees,” he repeated.

  She squinted over Dad’s shoulder. Marcus knelt as if he had all the time in the world, though his eyes were as pale as the moon. His nostrils flared. In the same leisurely manner, he stretched his hands up and behind his head.

  She didn’t need glasses to tell his torso was magnificent. Muscles, dark nipples and, Goddess, his shoulders and biceps. He was the most hairless wolf she’d ever seen, and she’d seen a lot of them in her old profession.

  She wished she’d touched him more when she’d had the chance. Pushed him, like he’d told her not to. He hadn’t rattled as easily as other wolves she’d neutralized. She’d used her own weakness against them and had loathed every minute of it.

  She couldn’t say that she loathed her interactions with Marcus, which was a surprise. Was it because he was so reserved?

  “Why didn’t you get the cayenne spray instead of the gun? Works better on wolves,” she hissed at Dad. Flustering Marcus with sexiness hadn’t been effective. Maybe he didn’t make passes at girls with glasses.

  “Gun’s
more obvious,” Dad said. “Besides, I like my gun.”

  “We should place an anonymous call to the region elders.” She didn’t want other witches poking around here, but if it had to happen, they’d handle it like they did the weekly wolf patrols.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t.” Marcus’s face angled toward her, even though Dad was the one with the gun. “I’ve gone to some trouble to avoid the elders.”

  “Bet you have,” Dad said. “You’re a mongrel, aren’t you?”

  Marcus sighed.

  “Aw, hell.” Katie felt like slapping herself. Molasses brain. How had she not guessed? He knew about witches because he’d been one—before succumbing. This told her two things about him.

  One, he’d slept with a wolf. Two, he wasn’t alpha. Millington coven had discovered that witches who were natural alphas didn’t change after sex with a wolf. However, the only way to tell for sure whether a witch was alpha—resistant—was to sleep with a wolf.

  “The term mongrel is outdated and offensive.” Marcus hadn’t made a single move to retaliate, though he didn’t seem concerned. “I’m a shifter, as are you both. We’re the same inside. We simply focus our magic down different paths.”

  “Shut it. Mongrel.” Dad, who hadn’t taken up this generation’s banner of political correctness, shifted his grip on the gun and smiled, dentures gleaming. “You don’t get to speak.”

  “You knew what he was all along?” Katie asked her father. Now that she knew part of Marcus’s story, it explained why he was the opposite of what she expected from wolves. A scientist. She wished his story explained why she was unusually attracted to him, but that was just her weakness rearing its humiliating head. Wasn’t it?

  “I had my suspicions when you went into a tizzy after you tattooed him.”

  “A tizzy?” Marcus asked.

  “I may have questioned the wisdom of a wolf hanging around here, but I’d hardly call it a tizzy.” She’d argued with Dad about giving Marcus a be-gone permabrand—adding spell components to the tattoo ink and infusing them with her magic, the effects of which lingered for years. But Dad had insisted the wolf was toothless and to let him waste his money however he wished.