leaned forward next to Sid to watch the ichor in the alembic dance and coruscate as if stars captured under glass.
It had been two weeks since her best friend, Luc, had been around for a visit. He had been her guinea pig for the dust blend. Luc mentioned her project to his tribe leader, and Mauritius had been very interested.
Zoë set the kitchen timer for four minutes. She had to let the dust formulate a short time before adding the key ingredient.
Noticing the backpack she’d hastily dropped beside the door, she spied the steel cylinder spilling out that she’d nicked from her rescuer. So she had a habit of snatching things. It was a better vice than drinking or practicing malefic magic, wasn’t it?
She retrieved the cylinder and looked it over. Was it some kind of weapon? On second thought, it might not be steel. It was light, almost like aluminum, but she suspected the metal was strong and wouldn’t dent. It didn’t have a product name or brand anywhere on it. On one end was impressed a symbol of four pointed bars crossed over one another in the center of a circle.
The opposite end showed a cross slit that might open if some kind of button were pushed. Narrow black pads about three inches long stretched each side of the cylinder, like grips, and when she squeezed—
A sharp tip pinioned out the end of the column with such force that Zoë let out a gasp and dropped it. The deadly thing skimmed her boots, cutting a scar in the aged black leather, and clattered onto the white tiled floor.
She bent to grab it—but didn’t touch it. Its apparent use grew obvious now that the tip was fully ejected.
“A stake?”
It looked like a weapon some kind of hunter might use to stake vampires. What other purpose would it serve?
“He had been a skilled fighter. Hmm...Kaz,” she whispered, her thoughts wandering.
He’d reminded her of an action-movie hero. He hadn’t looked vampire or werewolf, though she would expect as much only because of the crowd with whom she normally hung around. He must have been human, because the others who had fallen at his fist had looked like standard street thugs.
There were times Zoë preferred vampires to humans. At least with vampires she knew where she stood—either as a friend or lunch. Humans were a mixed bag of nothing but misplaced mischief and accidental danger. Humans generally didn’t appeal to her, yet never had one shown her such chivalry. In those moments after she had stumbled onto the fight, she had felt the damsel.
Standing amongst the men, Kaz had been outfitted in a sleek, black leather duster coat and dark clothing. Night shadows had concealed most of his face, save for bulletlike eyes that had homed in to Zoë as if there were no other place he could see. He’d tilted his head, catching the moonlight on his devastating smirk and then had shouted for her to leave. The hero protecting the damsel.
His voice had been rough and deep, yet had eased into Zoë’s pores with a soul-stirring tingle. He’d spoken English, though it had been accented with something other than her native French. German, to guess from his surname Rothstein. His brown eyes had moved over her face, landing on her lips, and then along the scar that curled across one cheek—yet hadn’t lingered there—till finally they’d locked onto her gaze.
If only the moonlight had been stronger, she may have seen much more, and might have gazed for endless hours at the sexy man who had defended her with muscle and might.
The timer dinged and Zoë shot upright, leaving the stake on the floor. The next part of the blend recipe must be enacted immediately.
“Now for the magic.”
She tapped the glass with her matte-black-polished fingernails that were tipped in white. A smidge of secret potion was added to the faery ichor from a long, narrow vial—tap, tap, the iridescent particles fluttered into the alembic—and then she recited the spell that she’d worked for months to perfect after dozens of hours studying the family grimoire.
“Feé substitutuary lente.”
This kind of molecular magic tended to zap her energy. All other magics barely taxed her system, though she did have difficulty wielding any magic in public. Call it a lack of confidence, or never having been taught to use her magic around others.
“Dissimulate,” was the final word.
The ichor in the alembic turned purple and she knew the process had been a success. Now she need only reduce the ichor to dust, package it in vials and hand it over to Mauritius’s courier, who always arrived on Sunday morning, bright and early, despite the fact she was a vampiress.
Reaching for a tray of glass vials, Zoë paused and tilted her head to listen. She eyed Sid. The cat’s ears also perked.
Someone knocking on her front door after midnight?
“Unusual. Absolutely unprecedented, actually.”
Leaving the spell room, she carefully locked it with a snap of her fingers. Sid pussyfooted in her wake down the iron spiral stairs that landed but a few paces from the front door, and assumed his protective stance behind her legs.
Confident of the protective barrier that shielded her threshold from vampires, werewolves and faeries, Zoë gripped the doorknob and opened it to reveal a sexy smile and beaming brown eyes.
Her rescuing knight said, “I’ve come for another kiss.”
Chapter 2
Leather coat draped over one arm, Kaspar—or rather, the man who allowed those he kissed to call him Kaz—stood in her doorway, not crossing the threshold. Zoë could usually feel her wards tingle when an unwanted visitor activated them. Not even a ting in the air. He was human; she was sure of it.
Yet it was well past midnight. She never received such late callers.
“You found me,” she stupidly said, glancing over her shoulder and up the stairs. The dust mix needed to sit for an hour before she reduced it, so she could manage a chat.
He rapped the bright door. “Figured out what cerulean looks like. It’s so bright it glows even in the dark. Nobody could miss it. You going to invite me in?”
“Depends on what you want.”
“I like a cautious woman. Smart. Especially this time of night. I’ve already said what I want. Another kiss. In fact, I figure I should get one kiss for every one of those bastards I laid flat. Four down. Four kisses.”
“You’ve already taken two kisses.”
He stepped up to the threshold, towering over her, but not making her feel small in any way. “Two left.”
And too many ways she imagined those kisses. Long and lush, deep and delving, hot and achy. But she hardly knew the guy.
Zoë leaned up and kissed him quickly. “There’s one.”
“That wasn’t a kiss!”
“You didn’t specify length.”
He beat the door frame with a fist, but as a sign of his own frustration, nothing
