there were consequences. Melissa mentally defended herself against the imaginary conversation with her Coven Elder. She’d delayed death, not contravened it.
She knew one person, though, who could prevent it—and he was currently shivering in a cell in her basement.
With each step she took down to his prison, she argued with herself. Was there another option? Could anyone else help? What about Dave? No. He’d encounter the same issue she did. Lance needed medical help, not magical. How long could she keep Lance dormant? Perhaps she could wait just a little longer, until someone more suitable could be reached? The stairs leading from her store down to her apothecary spun for a moment, and she clutched the wall for support until her vision settled and she could enter her secret store.
A dormancy spell worked differently to most. For it to continue its effect, it had to siphon energy from her own reserves, and she’d drained most in her efforts to heal Lance and to halt the toxin. It was almost too much effort to despell the wards on the mural door. She reached for the torch and carefully made her way down the steep stairs, clinging to the railing as she went.
She halted before the dark door and took a deep breath, composing her features. She hated this. Hated it. She swung open the door and the torch cut a swathe of light through the darkness.
Her prisoner sat on the floor, his back to the wall, and he lifted his head. His lips curled in a wicked smile.
“Hello, Red. Come to make a deal with the devil?”
Hunter eyed the witch, his eyebrows dipping slightly. She looked like hell. He saw the blood on her shirt, saw her sway, and he rose to his feet. He had one only cuff that was anchored, but if she collapsed, he wouldn’t be able to reach her. “Are you okay?” He gestured to her shirt. He didn’t know who was more surprised by his concern, the witch or him.
The witch looked down at herself. “Uh, yeah, I’m—I’m—it’s not mine.” Her voice was huskier than usual, a slight rasp that was like velvet against skin.
She stepped inside the room and rubbed absently at her forehead. He masked his concern with expectation. He’d seen her angry, mildly curious, angry, exasperated, angry, wary, more angry...he’d never seen her so...flustered. Yeah, flustered.
She put her hands on her hips and looked down at her boots—those same killer heels—then looked up at him. “I need your help.”
His eyebrows rose. Okay. That was unexpected. She looked so damn uncomfortable, he almost laughed, yet her obvious exhaustion, the blood...she wasn’t here to ask him to stop dreamwalking, as he’d thought, as he’d hoped. His intention had been to wear her out so that she would be begging him to leave. “What kind of help?” he inquired smoothly.
She moved her arms, halted, then folded them against her body, as though unsure what to do with her limbs. “I, uh, I need a doctor.”
His heart thudded in his chest, and he stepped closer. “Why? What’s wrong with you?” He looked her up and down. She was a mess. Her hair was tangled, and dark shadows rested beneath her eyes. Her lips were tightly pursed, and her shirt...all that blood. He wanted to check her, make sure she really was all right. The instinct surprised him. He told himself it was his medical training taking over...although he wasn’t really the nurturing type.
“Uh, not for me. For a friend. I need your help for a friend.” She couldn’t quite meet his gaze.
He raised an eyebrow. “Really? You have a friend?” Melissa Carter, bitchy witch, had a friend. He’d have to see it to believe it. “You?”
She frowned. “Yes, me,” she said through gritted teeth. “I have a friend, and he needs help.”
He. Her male friend needed help. His concern shrank, swallowed by a darker emotion. He shrugged. “Then take him to a hospital.”
“There’s no time, and the transfer could kill him,” she said quietly, at last meeting his gaze directly.
His eyes narrowed. “So...you need me.” He leaned back against the wall. Hmm. She was in a position of demand, and he was in a position of supply. He liked where this conversation was going. “What exactly do you need from me?”
“You have a reputation for being good at what you do,” she said brusquely, although her tone suggested she found it hard to believe. “I want you to fix him. Heal my friend.”
“And what do I get in return?” he asked her, a smile teasing at his lips. She was direct. He’d give her that.
“What do you want?” she asked, shrugging.
He blinked. She was asking him to name his price? He tilted his head. “This friend must mean a lot to you.” She struck him as being so prickly, so quick-tempered, it was fascinating to see this side of her, this loyal, protective side.
She tilted her head back, and he watched her red hair slide over her shoulder. “I’m too tired for games, Hunter. What do you want in return for healing my friend?”
Hunter. Not pyro jerk or any of the other monikers she’d given him. It was the first time she’d used his name. Things were serious. He rubbed his chin, the remaining chain clinking with his movements. “I want you to release me,” he said simply.
Those green eyes flared with anger, and he met her gaze intently. Did she care more for this friend, or for her own revenge? Her lips tightened, then she dipped her head. Once.
“Fine. You heal my friend, and you can walk away.”
“And then you and I are done, right? No more snakes or snow or spiders?”
She nodded. “No more snakes or snow or spiders.”
His eyes narrowed. Yeah, she wasn’t the first witch he’d ever dealt with. “Or any other form of revenge or retribution from you for what I did. It was wrong, I’m sorry, we’re moving on.”
Her pouty lips tightened even further, and he saw the anger, the reluctance to let go of her punishment. She nodded. “You do this, and we’re done. Moving on.”
It was so obvious she hated this whole discussion. His curiosity deepened. Who was this friend, and why was he so damn important to this witch? Not that he cared, it would just be nice to know what reasoning had bought his freedom. He held up the chained cuff.
“Release me,” he said softly.
She stepped closer, and her eyes narrowed. “The deal is you heal him. If he dies, or if you kill him—”
“I’m not in the habit of killing folks,” he interrupted in exasperation.
“You tried to kill me,” she pointed out, and he grimaced.
“Okay, so just that one time...”
“You’ve attacked me five times.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
“You don’t get to leave until my friend is well,” she snapped. “If he dies, you die.”
