snapped his fingers, abruptly cutting her off as if she were a child being scolded by a rude teacher. “If you want to keep breathing, stay away from me, witch.”
And he stalked off, glancing over his shoulder at her once. He slapped his hand against a thigh, tugging a phone out of his pocket, and stomped away.
Tamatha offered a wave. Silly. And stupid. He’d been offended by kissing her? She hadn’t made him do a thing. He’d wanted to kiss her.
Vile?
“Not so pleased about kissing you, either,” she muttered.
But she couldn’t quite bring herself to wipe off his kiss. Instead, she tapped her mouth and decided to stick with the good memory of his demanding and sensual lips against hers.
“I kissed a demon,” she said in wonder. And for as much as he had been repulsed, she could not summon a tendril of disgust. A smile curled her rain-sprinkled lips. “And I liked it.”
* * *
He clicked to answer the ringing cell phone as he stalked away from the repulsive witch. She had tasted—well, not vile, but rather sweet. Though he’d not admit that out loud.
“Thrash! You gotta help. They’re getting closer. I can’t get out of here!”
It was his friend Laurent LaVolliere, a fellow demon whom he considered family, for their grand-relations had once formed the Libre denizen centuries earlier here in the very heart of Paris. Laurent sounded out of breath and frightened. The man was a strife demon; it took a lot to frighten him.
“Tell me where you are, Laurent.”
“The Montparnasse!”
“Where in...the cemetery?”
“Their skin... Ed, it’s falling from their faces. And...stuff is oozing from their mouths. There’s so many of them. I can feel their dark magic. So...powerful. I can’t move!”
The terror in his friend’s voice sent a shiver down his spine. “I’ll be right there. Hold on.”
Ed shoved the phone into his pocket. Yet something compelled him to glance over his shoulder. The witch was nowhere to be seen. Talk about tormenting demons under the full moon.
But he couldn’t bother with a silly witch and that ridiculously hot kiss. Laurent was in trouble.
He spread back his arms and tilted back his head. The sensation of feathered barbs piercing his flesh always hurt like a mother. The price he had to pay for shifting. His molecules rearranged and did their own thing and his form separated into dozens of soot-winged ravens. As one entity the conspiracy of ravens swooped upward and soared in the direction of the cemetery. Beyond a vast city garden, the graveyard marked a dark blot amid the roofed and pavement-tangled city.
When he came to human form with a shiver of his body to gather in his energy and shake off a feather or two, he stood in a dark graveyard packed with tombstones, mausoleums, crumbling stone crosses and moss-frosted angels. Fully clothed, a phenomenon beyond his explanation, he wore no trace of his previous form. He could smell the anomaly immediately and felt its presence as a tightening in his horn nubs. And the witch ward on his forearm burned as it had not previously in the alley.
When his eyes landed on the band of growling creatures—who were wrapped in shredded linens, some of their hair gone and skin indeed falling away from some of their bones—he heard his friend’s scream. And witnessed his destruction.
Laurent let out one agonizing shout at sight of Ed: “Les Douze!” Then his body was torn away at shoulders, hips and head. His remains did not immediately ash as with most demon deaths.
One of the hideous creatures sighted Ed. He reactively sent a stream of energy mined from his vita, his very life force, toward it, which manifested as black smoke, enforced with demonic magic. The force should knock it from its feet and slam it into the nearby tombstone, breaking its body and killing it. The current of black energy coiled about the creature. Instead of succumbing to defeat, the zombielike thing merely swayed as if an annoying breeze had washed over its decrepit structure.
The rest of the creatures spied Ed. The one next to the thing that had taken his energy zap as if a mosquito sting dropped Laurent’s disembodied arm and growled at him. One opened its mouth and the lower jaw unhinged.
“Didn’t think zombies existed,” he hissed.
Zombies were not tops on his list. He never watched the popular television show because they were so unbelievable. The dead did not come back to life. Right?
The group of things—whatever they were—groaned and stalked toward him.
Ed knew when he was overwhelmed, and he was going to count his lacking ability to put the one off its feet to lingering remnants of the sexy witch’s binding spell.
“Find your rest, Laurent!” he shouted, then shifted to a conspiracy and flew out of there and back to his home, where he landed on the rooftop, fell to his knees and caught his palms on the concrete surface.
It was raining harder, and he prayed no lightning snapped the sky. Lightning worked like an electrical jolt to his bones, no matter how distant the occurrence.
Shifting into and out of his humanlike demon form took a lot out of him. He rarely utilized the skill because he could generally get where he needed to go by car or on foot. He’d be exhausted for hours now. But he was safe at home. Safe from...
“What the hell killed my friend?”
Les Douze was French for The Twelve. And something about that moniker rang a bell in Ed’s memory. Perhaps he and Laurent had discussed it once? But why, and what did it mean?
After searching for hours through the database his office maintained—hacked from Hawkes Associates—Ed learned The Twelve had been a coven of witches from the eighteenth century who had been accused of witchcraft by the locals and burned to death in the Place de Grève, which was now the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, or city hall. A remarkable and grisly event that the human Parisians had talked about for decades and the real witches would never forget.
That verified what Ed suspected. He rubbed the small, solid black circle sigil on his forearm that had burned when he’d first landed in the cemetery. Indeed, those creatures had been witches. But what sort? Witches were generally alive. Not even generally, but rather, exclusively.
Those things after Laurent had been remarkably zombielike. With skin falling from their limbs, their only audible sounds had been grunts and groans. Strange, metallic gray stuff had oozed from their mouths. But really? Had dead witches killed Laurent?
“But Les Douze were burned,” he muttered, closing his laptop and leaning back in his office chair. “They were reduced to ashes. Things don’t come back from the dead. Not usually.”
He’d heard the rumor about a tribe of revenant vampires who had been resurrected from the dead. And sure, he guessed dark magic could bring anything back to life. A dark witch or warlock could conjure such a monstrosity. But it would be a real zombie. Zombies
