A Demon Does It Better (38 page)

Alderley Edge, Cheshire, England

The Year 1313

Someone’s thoughtless use of magick has put our school in great jeopardy.”

Emerald velvet robes flew around the reed-thin body of the headmistress as if a storm brewed within her. Red and blue flames flashed from the foot of her staff as she tamped it to punctuate her words with the ring of cold stone. Not one of Eurydice’s thirteen students moved a muscle as they stood in line awaiting her judgment.

On their first day at The Academy for Witches, the headmistress had laid down the rules and the consequences of breaking them. She pronounced that there would be no exceptions if any of those rules were broken. Yet today, her cardinal law had been broken—one of the students had gone so far as to cast a curse on a mortal. She walked down the line of girls, spearing each of them with her angry gaze.

“We are sor—” one of the girls sputtered.

“
Silence!
” Eurydice turned on her heel to face down the unlucky witchling. “Whoever cast the spell must step forward and be accountable for her actions.”

Not one of the acolytes spoke up. All thirteen stared at the ancient stone floor.

“Your shared silence to protect the guilty one is laudable.” Eurydice’s dark eyes matched the flames flickering at the end of her staff. Still no one moved. “However this offense was committed against a member of royalty. A man with the power to close this school, do us harm, even destroy us. I am certain some would commend you for not betraying the classmate who cast this spell, but the culprit must step forward and accept her punishment.”

The girls looked at each other, linked their fingers together and then, as one, all thirteen stepped forward.

“Very well. As you will have it,” Eurydice said. The air around her swirled dark and purple as she pronounced judgment. “Henceforth, all of you are banished from this place and are cast out into the world for one hundred years with only the powers you presently control. If any of you dares to cast a spell not meant for the greater good, your banishment will be extended. At the end of your banishment you will be brought before the Witches’ High Council to determine your final fate.

“And I hope—” she made eye contact with each girl who managed to meet her furious gaze “—you will learn just what a merciless mortal world you have been cast into.”

Then she tamped her staff against the cold, unforgiving stone floor, and the thirteen acolytes vanished.

The headmistress turned to face the three elder witches standing quietly by the wall.

“Do you think they’ll be all right, Eurydice, all alone in the world?” Allene, the softhearted, asked. “Do you think they’ll be in danger?”

“Hardly, dear sister,” the headmistress chuckled. “I fear more for the world.”

***

Pasadena, California

The Year 2007

How long are we going to sit here?”

“As long as it takes.” Jazz Tremaine shifted in the Thunderbird convertible’s bench seat. She loved her 1956 aqua and white classic sports car, but there wasn’t much legroom for her five-foot-eight-inch frame.

Nice neighborhood for a stakeout though, with its wide, posh swath of multi-million dollar homes set behind high iron fences and ornate gates. Still, Jazz hoped she wouldn’t have to wait all night for Martin “The Sleaze Bag” Reynolds to come home. Her left foot was falling asleep, and that large Diet Coke she’d had with her dinner was warning her that bathroom time would be in her near future.

A scraping sound, a flare of sulfur, and a whiff of tobacco smoke from the passenger seat made Jazz’s nose twitch. “Irma, put that damn thing out.”

Irma clicked open the ashtray and heaved a put-upon sigh. “I’m bored.”

“Then leave,” Jazz snapped.

“Ha, ha,” Irma snorted. “Very funny.”

She sat in the passenger seat wearing her Sunday best, a navy floral-print dress with its delicate lace collar and navy buttons marching down the front. A dainty navy and white spring straw hat decorated with tiny flowers sat squarely on her tightly permed iron-gray hair. White gloves and a navy patent leather handbag completed her perfect 1950s ensemble. No surprise there because Irma had died in the passenger seat of the T-Bird on March 12, 1956.

Irma was the bane of the 700-year-young witch’s existence and the sole drawback to the snazzy car she dearly loved. Her 100-percent success rate at eliminating curses had fallen to 99 percent when she’d failed, no matter what she tried, to remove the highly irritating Irma from the car. In the end, Jazz’s client refused to pay her, and Jazz ended up with the classic sports car instead; with Irma as an accessory.

“I can make that lamppost disappear with a snap of my fingers.” Jazz gestured toward a nearby post standing at the corner and did just that. Another snap of the fingers and the post reappeared. “But with you …” She snapped her fingers in front of Irma, but nothing happened. “With you, nothing. Nada. Zip. No matter how many times I try, you’re still here!”

“You shall pay, Nick Gregory. This I vow. You shall suffer and scream for a mercy I shall deny you.” Jazz’s parted lips trailed across Nick’s collarbone. She ran the tip of her tongue up the taut lines of his throat while her fingers danced their way down his abs following the line of crisp hair lower still.

“Mercy,” Nick whispered as her fingers wrapped around his erection. He lay naked on his bed, legs slightly spread to accommodate Jazz’s bare thigh draped over his.

“But we’ve just begun, darling,” she purred, nipping his earlobe just hard enough to cause him to jump in response, then soothed the bite with her tongue. “You must lie there very still while I have my way with you.”

“Feel free to do what you will—soon enough it will be my turn.” He lowered his voice to a husky growl that made promises she knew he would keep. Her body quivered in anticipation.

But for now, it was her turn and she intended to make the most of it.

Leaning back, she admired the view. Sheer male beauty stretched out beside her. Nick had kept himself in excellent physical condition in life and, as a member of the undead, his well-honed body would never deteriorate. She tangled her fingers in the light dusting of dark brown hair on his chest. She knew many women admired a hair-free chest, but she liked to see a bit there, as long as the man didn’t look as if he needed a good chest waxing. No, Nick’s was just right. Surrendering to temptation, she lowered her head to nibble on a dark brown nipple that peeked out among the hair. It peaked to a hard nub and brought another groan to his lips.

“Wuss,” she teased, dividing her attention between both nipples, alternating with tiny nips of her teeth and soothing licks of her tongue. She glanced up under the cover of her lashes. “Why no nipple rings? So many vamps love them as bling.”

Nick made a face. “Not my style. Makes me think it would be too easy to loop a chain through it. Make me a slave.”

“Hmmmm,” she giggled and hummed as she mouthed her way down to his navel. “The picture that conjures up…”

“Seems like you’ve already conjured something very much up.” His eyes followed as she cupped her hand around his straining cock, slowly stroking from root to tip in a rhythm that had him clenching his teeth when her other hand gently cradled the sac beneath.

“I ask that thee render me that which I deserve. Because I say so, damn it!” She finished with her own version of “so mote it be” on a wave of throaty laughter right before she raised her body up over him and settled on him with perfect ease. She straddled his hips, bending her long legs alongside his.

“What? No foreplay?” He grasped her hips, although she needed no help in finding a rhythm. It had been written in their blood ages ago.

She leaned forward and brushed her mouth across his, tickling the seam of his lips and teasing the tips of his fangs, darting out before they could prick the tender skin. “We had foreplay at the movies,” she breathed against his mouth. “And during the drive home when I unzipped your jeans and…” she deliberately paused for effect, “it’s time for the main event, fang boy.” She moved in a circular motion, tightening her core to massage him with her inner muscles.

Nick suddenly jackknifed his legs, flipping her onto her back with ease.

“You are so right, m’lady. But I’ll be the ringmaster for this show.” He dipped his head, kissing her deeply. The scent of arousal grew thick in the room. He reared back until his cock left her folds. As she whimpered the sorrow of her loss, he thrust forward, filling her once again. With each deepening stroke, she arched up, meeting him as his equal.

Jazz looked up, smiling at the dark intensity of his features.

Her smile faltered a bit when she saw the arousal turn to something else, as his expression sharpened and his eyes turned a burning red. The growl that traveled up his throat turned into a feral hiss. Before she could react, his fangs lengthened and he dipped his head. Pain shot through her as his fangs pierced the sensitive skin of her throat.

Why isn’t my blood making him sick? Everyone knows a witch’s blood will sicken, and can even kill, a vampire!
She wanted to shriek, to fight back, but her heavy limbs refused to obey her commands. Lights danced before her eyes and she feared instead of her blood killing Nick, he would kill her.

Jazz’s eyes popped open as she shot up in bed, her hand pressed against the side of her neck where pain still radiated. Nick lay slumbering beside her.

Fear, memory of searing pain, and just plain fury warred inside her. She looked down at the source and let her temper—and fist—loose.

“You son of a whore!” She threw a punch to his bare abs that could easily have broken her hand. Not that she would have noticed. “
You bit me!
”

“What? What?” Nick scrambled away from her flying fists and fell out of bed. He grasped the covers and stared at her as if he was positive she’d somehow lost her mind. “What in Hades is wrong with you?”

“You bit me!” She slid off the other side of the bed and hurried around the room, keeping her hand pressed against her neck. Pain and anger translated to red and purple sparks flying around her.

“Bit you?” Confusion mingled with being just plain pissed off at being awakened with a punch to the stomach. “I was
asleep,
damn it!” He hauled himself to his feet and stood there in all his naked glory. For once, Jazz’s cold stare warned him that she wasn’t admiring the view. He stared at her hand covering her throat but saw no signs of blood or trauma to the skin. He refused to believe he would take her blood without permission, asleep or not. In all their times as lovers he hadn’t even given her a hickey. He also kept a close eye on her free hand. The last thing he wanted was witchflame thrown at his favorite part of the body. “Damn it, I didn’t bite you!”

“Can you believe this absolute nonsense? I’m being sued!” Stasi stormed into Blast from the Past with the force of a Category 5 hurricane. She held up a sheaf of papers that looked suspiciously like ancient papyrus with lines of gilded lettering streaming across it. The large, embossed seal stamped at the bottom made it official. “And in Wizards’ Court, no less!”

“Uh, Stasi, love, I have customers.” Blair’s gaze darted to the four people prowling her shop, who were now looking at Stasi with fascination. Blair’s shop specialized in authentic retro items, from a 1940s Madame Alexander doll to a 1950s chrome table and tie-dyed clothing from the 1960s. It was easy for Blair to keep a varied inventory when her sister witches tended to clean out their closets of personal treasures every so often and were happy to have Blair sell them on consignment.

She quickly held up her hands. “Freeze frame, make it so!” She moved swiftly toward one woman who had frozen in the process of returning a tall Warner Bros. Roadrunner glass to the shelf, grabbing the glass just as it slipped from the woman’s fingers. She placed it carefully among the other glasses and turned to Stasi.

Stasi’s mid-length sunny brown hair flared around her with a life of its own as she stomped to the rear of the shop. She pulled herself up to sit on the waist-high counter and tossed the papyrus down on the polished surface. “This is insane,” she snarled, staring at the parchment so hard Blair was amazed it didn’t burst into flames. “Hic!” A perfectly shaped iridescent bubble escaped her lips.

Blair stared at her best friend in amazement. Anastasia Romanov was known for her sweet, romantic temperament and calm, almost placid, demeanor. Right now she looked ready to go off into a major witchy hissy fit, as evidenced by those angry bubbles. This was not the Stasi she’d known for more than seven hundred years! Stasi hiccupped and two more bubbles floated into the room.

“Now isn’t the time to get the hiccups! Take a breath,” Blair ordered, running a hand through her dark auburn curls. “And tell me what is going on. Slowly!”

Stasi closed her eyes, hiccupped again (three bubbles this time), and pulled in a deep breath, then another. When she opened them, she looked a bit calmer. And when she hiccupped again, only one tiny bubble slipped out. Blair relaxed a little.