“Fine,” he answered in kind. “I’m a warlock—magick-practicing and everything.”
She broke into a full grin. When he did nothing but stare at her with a totally straight face, her grin began to fade. “Ethan—”
“Nope. That’s not the end of it.” He dragged a hand down the front of his face. “I knew I’d seen Dylan O’Shea before but couldn’t remember where. He came to a coven I was involved in at the time, and he was looking for someone.”
“A coven, as in a bunch of witches with black cats and brooms and cauldrons.” Shaking her head, she tried not to laugh. “That’s rich, Ethan.”
“I’m not a—” He paused, trying to find a way to explain. “Dylan O’Shea is an actual living, breathing Druid. What’s worse? He’s their Assassin. And they only let that dog off the chain when they’ve got a real problem.”
“That’s not funny.” The words were filled with disbelief.
“No, it’s not.”
She shook her head. “You’re trying to scare me into compliance, but it’s not going to work.”
Ethan tapped his chin for a second then smiled, but it was far from a happy sight. “Trust me.” A command, not a question.
Kennedy opened her mouth to answer but could only wheeze. Her hand went to her throat in a panic.
“Easy, honey. I took your voice.”
He leaned forward, hand outstretched, and she scrambled back from him. The backs of her knees hit the bed and she dropped to the mattress, hand still at her throat. This isn’t real.
“Hey. It’s me. Same guy I’ve always been.”
When Ethan reached for her throat, she leaned back.
“It’s easier for me to return what I took if I’m touching you.”
Tension devolved to violent shaking, but she let him come closer.
He passed his hand down the column of her throat and whispered a few unintelligible words.
Her throat tickled for a second and she cleared it. “Holy shit,” she said softly, the curse filled with both fear and awe.
“That about sums it up.” Ethan didn’t look happy.
“I’m not saying you’re right, but if you are, why has Dylan been let off the chain?”
“I don’t know why, but he’s here—” His head snapped up. Sidling up to the window, he shifted the curtain aside. “Goddess preserve us. He really is. He’s here.”
Dylan crouched in the bushes outside Ethan’s house. There were no lights on inside, but a red, new-model muscle car sat in the driveway. Given the earthy scent he picked up from the perimeter and the brush of power he’d felt moments ago, it had to be the warlock’s.
He rubbed his hands down cargo-clad thighs. His face paint was oily, his shoulder holsters chafed and his scalp was tight. Nothing felt right about this. The need to unfurl his own magick, to feel out the house, skated down his arms and burned his fingertips. Reality shifted, blurring his hands. What the hell? Something was messing with his control, ramping up his tenuous hold on the aether.
Ever volatile, his magick didn’t come only when called, like some elemental lapdog he commanded to heel. Aether demanded more recognition than that. If he didn’t exercise the magick regularly, it forced his hand. He’d leak power in a steady drip, drip, drip. Then he’d blow. Surroundings would be fundamentally changed. From the animate to the inanimate, nothing was safe.
The breeze shifted, and the woman’s scent flirted with his senses—lavender and vanilla. Yet underlying that was something dark, a faint smell as pungent as burned hair that tainted her natural fragrance. It hadn’t been there earlier. The warlock’s green, earthy smell confused things.
He refocused on the house as a shadow moved by a window, one that was decidedly too tall to be...her. His chest ached and he cursed long and low. She was his mark. Nothing more, nothing less. He’d carry out his duties as he always had—with cold precision.
The warlock scanned the bushes where Dylan hid.
He wondered for a moment if Ethan could sense his magick. If he could, he’d be more of a contender than Dylan had originally given him credit for. The Assassin in him almost wished for that. His need to take back the control he’d lost this morning in letting the woman get away made him slightly reckless.
The curtains shut abruptly, and he had the distinct sense his wish was about to come true. He did a quick physical inventory of his weapons—short sword, daggers, gun, taser, garrotes, injectable sedation, smoke grenades, tear gas, extra bullets, both plastic and steel cuffs. It was all there. Sidling up to the front door, he used the deep porch shadows to hide and wait.
No one emerged.
Slinking around the side of the house, he scaled the fence and dropped into the backyard. Dylan slipped closer to the house. French doors on the lower patio were the most logical means of entry, but he’d likely be forced to work his way upstairs at some point. Being trapped in a stairwell with a warlock flinging elemental magicks at him would put him on the defensive, and Dylan didn’t operate that way.
He took the steps to the deck, edging up to the glass slider. Going to one knee, he peered around the corner. Few adversaries expected a man his size to come in low.
Unfurling his magick, he let it flood the house like smoke, filling every crevice, nook and cranny. They were there. The feel of them tickled his overstimulated senses. Her scent moved through him, unleashing an altogether different kind of desire in him. Damn her. Damn her for mixing this up.
Need coiled in him like a giant snake, and he cursed her under his breath. It was as if she’d bewitched him. From the moment he’d seen her the first time in his dreams, he’d wanted her. The reality of the woman was far more potent, fueling an irrational desire that called to him to toss duty aside, go to her and forget both obligation and honor.
Dylan pulled back and thumped his temple hard with the heel of one hand. He’d never failed an assignment, and this wouldn’t be his first. Whatever truth he’d been warned so long ago to find in the woman would have to come second to his responsibilities and, if necessary, his life.
Shaking his head to clear the hazy craving that was her siren’s song, he reached slowly for the door handle. It unlocked with a simple mental push. The resounding snick in the oppressive, stormy atmosphere announced his location as effectively as if he’d rung the front bell.
He let the door whisper open.
The first attack came as he crossed the threshold. A short incantation followed by streams of light as bright as the sun. They struck him full in the chest and launched him backward so hard he hit the second-story deck railing. He nearly went over.
A short, female shout of alarm pulled him upright.
Then the damn warlock struck again.
This time Dylan did go over the rail. He managed to tuck and roll into the landing, missing the concrete pad by inches. Not that the grass was that much softer, but at least he didn’t break anything that would keep him out of the fight.
Dylan shoved to his feet and raced to the fence, vaulting it without slowing down. He rounded the house and smashed through the front door in time to see Ethan haul Kennedy down a long hallway. He started after them, his pace leisurely. He waved a hand at the front door. “Chomh luath agus a scoir, anois chuimhne. Oscailte do cheann ach mé.” Once an exit, now a memory. Where the door had been was now solid wall.
Casting