Marked by Moonlight (31 page)

Her fiery gaze clashed with his. “Let. Me. Go.”

Time stretched between them as he gazed into her mesmerizing eyes, and he couldn't help wondering if she was working some of her magic on him now, because he couldn't look away.

At last he slid his hand from the soft skin of her throat and took a step back. “Aren't your eyes supposed to be black?” he muttered. It was something he'd run across consistently in his research about demon witches.

“My demon's not home right now,” she explained grimly, lightly touching her throat.

“Your demon can come and go?” He frowned. Did that mean that she could reverse the curse only when she was possessed?

“Yes. He hasn't bothered me in over a year.”

Bothered
her? As though he were a nuisance.

“And I hope it stays that way,” she added.

She regretted entering into a contract with the demon? He shook his head. Whether she regretted her choices didn't change anything. “How can you get him to come back?”

“You don't want him here.”

“No,
you
don't. I do.”

“You think he's just going to listen to you and end the curse?” She shook her head; the motion struck him somehow as tired. “It's not that easy. Dealing with him . . . you
can't
deal with him. Trust me.”

“Let me decide—”

“You don't know what you're dealing with. He won't help you. The first thing he did upon possessing me was curse Etienne Marshan. I don't even remember that happening.” A muscle flickered in the delicate line of her jaw. “When I'm under his influence, I can barely remember my actions . . . everything is a hazy dream, at best.”

She turned her back on him and moved into the living area, her movements relaxed. Without fear. That was a change. Once females knew what he was, they tended to scream and run. Except for Helen, of course. He couldn't get rid of her if he wanted to.

He watched as she sat on the couch, her pale, elegant hands clasping her knees. He'd never seen a woman move with such easy grace . . . and then he reminded himself that she wasn't a woman. She was an abomination. Just like him. Her every move was probably calculated to manipulate, to drag weak men into her web. Lucky for him he was neither weak nor man.

Her cat eyes reached deep inside him, assessing. Again, he wondered if she was attempting some spell to charm him.

“I can't help you,” she said evenly, moistening her lips as if she was nervous. “I'm sorry. I appreciate that you aren't like other lycans and—”

“I don't give a damn what you appreciate,” he snapped. “You're the reason I'm this.” He grabbed two handfuls of his shirtfront roughly.

She maintained her composure and drew a deep breath. “I wish I could help you, but I can't.”

He eyed her dubiously. She actually sounded sorry, but he knew that couldn't be true.

“If I could take it back . . .” She glanced away for a moment before looking back to him. Almost as though her composure was slipping.

He sank down on the chair across from her, every muscle still taut and braced for attack, even as unlikely as an attack seemed from this slight female with a deceptively vulnerable air. She was quite the little actress. But then, she'd had years to perfect her act. Right now she was meek. Polite. But it didn't fool him. Her witch soul was even uglier than his. “I'm supposed to believe you? Accept your apology and walk away?”

She rolled one shoulder in a small shrug. “What else is there for you to do? I can't help you.”

“I think with the right incentive . . . you just might figure out a way to give me what I want.”

Her eyes flared as the words hung between them, laden with threat. The air thickened between them. His gaze narrowed in on the rapidly thumping pulse at her throat, studying it intently above her collar.

She settled her hands on her lap carefully. For a moment he thought they trembled, but then he decided that wasn't possible. Not her. She'd have to feel something to be affected like that, and he knew she was as cold-blooded as they came.

“I can't tell you what I don't know. If there is a way to end the curse, I don't know how to do it. Balthazar would hardly confide that to me.” She rose to her feet, standing rigidly, stretching her five and a half feet. “Now. I was just packing.”

He rose to his feet. She really thought she could dismiss him. She thought she was safe from him because he couldn't kill her. Well, there were plenty of other unpleasant things he could do to her.

He appraised her coolly. “Where are you going?”

“Anchorage.”

He cocked his head, convinced that wasn't the entire truth. “Anchorage is south of here. I've been tracking you for a while now. Through Canada, Alaska. You never go south. Especially in spring.”

She fidgeted. “Yeah, well. I thought it was time for a change of scenery.”

She was lying. He smelled it on her.

She moved to the front door, stepping over the broken objects littering the carpet, motioning for him to follow.

Her face was stoic, but the wariness was still in her eyes. In her unwillingness to look him directly in the face. She was hiding something. Maybe she really knew how to end the curse and was keeping it from him. She pulled open the door, letting in a burst of frigid air.

He reached beyond her and grasped the door, wrapping his fingers around the edge.

She flinched at the abrupt move, his sudden closeness, and looked up at him, uncertainty bright in her eyes.

He shut the door solidly, the resounding click gratifying. Flattening his palms against its surface, he caged her in with his arms. “I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

*   *   *

Tresa jiggled the handcuff at her wrist that chained her to the side of the headboard. Flipping her legs around, she planted her feet flat on the floor so that she was in a sitting position.

She scanned the room, identifying objects she might be able to use to help her escape. If she concentrated, she could probably break the bedpost she was cuffed to. Then she exhaled in frustration. She'd used her powers earlier when the lycan first showed up, and Balthazar had undoubtedly sensed her. Any more uncharacteristic activity from her and he might decide to pay her a visit The last thing she needed was Balthazar around while she tried to defuse this lycan hell-bent on destroying him.

Glaring at the open door of her bedroom, she shouted, “This isn't necessary!”

A moment passed before he emerged, propping his broad shoulder against the doorjamb. All six feet plus of him. Her chest tightened at the sight of him. Physically, he was an impressive specimen. She had thought her little house spacious, but with him in it, it felt crowded. Overwhelmed.

His piercing pewter eyes, set deeply beneath a slash of dark brows, absorbed her. She couldn't escape their singe.

“Did you say something?” He possessed a faint accent . . . something that had faded from what it once was, but it was there nonetheless. She recognized it as something obsolete, the echo of a world long gone.

She glowered at him. “You heard me.” Along with all her other shouts since he'd hauled her from the living room and handcuffed her to the bed.
Damn
. No way would she make it to Anchorage now in time for her flight.

Her gaze narrowed. In the last half hour, she'd heard him moving around her house and the telltale beeps of the computer starting up. Clearly, he was nosing through her stuff.

“This isn't necessary,” she repeated, her voice even but tight.

He cocked his head. “Give me the answers I need and we can end this.” He looked her over, his cold eyes contemptuous. She resisted a shiver. It had been a long time since someone looked at her with that kind of hatred. She lived her life anonymously. No one knew what she was, what she had done. Maybe the only blessing of her life.

But from him she could not hide.

“I can't kill you.” He nodded his head once. “I accept that.” He pushed off the doorjamb and moved into the room, stopping directly in front of her. “But the solution is you. It's
in
you. Whether you know it or not.”

She inhaled a deep breath. He was beyond persuading, and most important—most frightening—he wasn't going to leave anytime soon. She looked around her room helplessly. “What do you suggest we do?”

Towering over her, he crossed his arms. “We need your demon.”

She sucked in a deep breath and shook her head doggedly. “I can't summon him.”

I won't.

He drilled her with his gaze, his look grim, his square jaw hard and unyielding. Clearly he wasn't buying it.

She moistened her lips and amended this by adding, “I don't know if I can.” Balthazar had a new witch to play with. Apparently one more willing to participate in his evil games than Tresa was. Even if she tried to summon him, he probably wouldn't come.

He shrugged as if he had all the time in the world. “Then we're going to be here awhile, I guess.” He turned and walked away, his steps thudding across the floor.

Furious heat flamed her face. She clamped her lips shut and screamed inside, only a muffled screech escaping. She yanked at her arm, pulling at the handcuff encircling her wrist, heedless of the pain.

His chuckle carried from the living room. He was enjoying tormenting her. Of course—he hated her.

After several moments of useless struggle, she fell back on the bed with a huffed breath and gazed up at the ceiling. Desperate tears burned her eyes.

This lycan was seriously interfering in her plans. Biting down on her lip, she contemplated telling him the truth. That her demon had found a new plaything who was committing terrible murders, and she needed to stop her. It was just a matter of time before the witch killed again. Balthazar would see to that. And meanwhile, she was stuck here.

In the end, she decided to keep that information to herself. The less the lycan knew what she was thinking, the better. This lycan didn't care about anything except reversing his curse. And she was his prisoner until he figured out that that wasn't ever going to happen.

Helplessness washed over her, and she dropped her head back on the bed and closed her eyes. Tears seeped out, rolling hotly down her cheeks. She brushed at her eyes to wipe the tears away but the handcuff stopped her, digging into her wrist.

With a choked curse, she rolled onto her side and buried her head in the pillow, damned if she would let him hear her weep.

*   *   *

She knew it was tomato-basil soup before he appeared in her room. The savory aroma made her stomach growl. It was her favorite, which was why she had so many jars in her pantry.

He filled the threshold, pausing a moment to settle those silver eyes on her. She scooted as far back as she could against the headboard.

He moved into the room and set the tray on the bed, near her legs. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“I'm not.” Her stomach rumbled in denial.

He motioned to her food. “You'll need your strength.”

“For what?” she snapped.

“Contacting your demon.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “You watch too much TV. It's not like contacting the dead. I'm not a medium.”

“Then how do you do it?” There was an edge of desperation to his voice. He wanted this. Badly. It was why he had come. What would he do to her when he couldn't get his way?

“It's up to Balthazar,” she said. “I can't summon him.”

The flesh of his jaw pulled tight. Clearly this wasn't an answer he wanted. “Then we wait.”

Her pulse spiked and she sat up straighter. “For how long?”

“However long it takes. He won't ignore you forever.” His gaze skimmed over her then. It was an assessing look, coldly admiring. “We have plenty of time on our hands.”

“What about the full moon?” she challenged. “How do you expect to stay here and not attack me?”

He moved away from the bed. “Clearly, we'll have to relocate in a few weeks for someplace more secure.”

Leave? With him? And go where? She shook her head. She didn't even know his name. At the sudden thought, she asked, “What's your name?” When he simply stared at her as though he wouldn't confide that much, she flung out, “Come on. You know mine.”

After a stretch of silence, he answered, “Darius.”

Darius
. An old name. Although he couldn't be older than she was, she knew she faced someone nearly as ancient. He would not be easy to escape—even with her gifts. And she didn't want to use her powers. Didn't want to lure Balthazar back in. Nothing, not even this lycan, would change her mind about that.

“I'm not going anywhere with you, Darius.”

At the door, he stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. A faintly sinister smile curled his lips. “You think you have a choice?”

An angry epithet rose to her lips. He was wrong if he thought she was some helpless female to be kept in chains indefinitely.

She shook her head at him slowly. “You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

His pewter eyes iced over, chilling her to the core. “Oh, I know exactly what you're capable of . . .
witch
.”

She flinched at the cruel emphasis he placed on the last word.

Without saying anything else, he turned and left the room. She stared at the empty door for a long moment, fighting back the urge to shout after him that she wasn't this horrible being he thought her.
She wasn't
. . .

The words stuck in her throat. She'd have to fully believe that to say it.

*   *   *

Darius stood silently beside the bed, looking down, watching the witch sleep. He crossed his arms. He'd found her. The demon witch he'd hunted since he stumbled upon the knowledge of her existence three years ago. It was best to think of her in those terms.
Demon witch.
Not Tresa. Not female. Not woman.