Rise of the Gryphon (Belador #4)(3)
He had more patience than a man should need. And to be honest, she was sick of letting her past rule her future. But she had good reason to hesitate even though she knew Storm would be an amazing lover. Her worry stemmed from fear of losing control, which might end with her killing him.
A very realistic fear for an Alterant like her.
His fingers curled around her neck, softly massaging her tight muscles as he kissed her ear and chin. “Stop stressing over the small stuff, sweetheart.”
His endearment spawned a silky swirl of heat in her stomach, as if he’d planted it there with his kiss.
When he pulled away, he dropped his forehead against hers, his deep voice rumbling against her skin. “I miss having you wrapped against me in front of my fireplace. I want you back, and rested. I’m getting damned tired of sharing you to help a renegade Alterant, but I’ll do this to get Macha off your back. And when we find Tristan this time, he is coming in to meet with Macha if I have to drag his miserable carcass all the way there.”
That sounded more like the Storm who’d clashed with Tristan since their first encounter. To be fair, Storm only told the truth . . . if you looked at Tristan’s past actions in strictly black-and-white terms.
But her job often required dealing with the gray areas in between.
Such as right now, when everything about this situation had taken an unexpected turn. From the looks of that group below, this had trouble written all over it in bloody ink. She’d asked Storm to come with her only to use his exceptional tracking skills to follow Imogenia once the coven meeting ended, not to put his life at risk to help someone he barely tolerated.
How was it right for her to always accept the comfort and support he offered when she couldn’t even meet this man halfway to the bedroom?
A place any woman would rush to for someone as considerate, attractive and sensual as Storm. Raw masculinity that women ogled everywhere he went.
Like she was doing right now. Mind back on business.
There’d be time for exploring that next step when they got back in front of his fireplace. After she’d met Macha’s demands.
She broke the contact, twisting around to scan the growing crowd in the valley. He did, too, and stroked his fingers lightly across her shoulder.
Storm tensed, leaning forward. “That’s got to be her.”
Evalle searched the odd mix of figures milling around for someone who matched the description and zeroed in on the new arrival. Torchlight reflected off a gold mask that adorned the face of a woman of medium height, with white hair. Not silver, not blond, but white curls that fell past her shoulders. “At least the description I was given appears to be sound. But what has she got chained that’s standing next to her?”
“I’m thinking demon with its head covered and the metal collar, but I don’t understand why a witch would need to chain something if she has it under her control.”
Evalle fingered the top of her boot where she kept her dagger, the one with a spell on the blade she’d used more than once to kill demons. “Does seem odd, since he, it, whatever, looks puny. He can’t be six feet tall and a skinny sucker, the way his clothes hang off his body. Think he’s a sacrifice?”
“No.” Storm rocked back on his heels, the movement shielded from the gathering below by the rocks they hid behind. “I need to stretch.” In one fluid move, he was on his feet, offering her a hand that she took. He walked backward, drawing her into dark shadows created by a stand of pine trees. “This changes the plan from observe and track.”
“Why? We can still wait for her to leave and follow her.”
“That was when we thought this was a group of witches getting together. Imogenia has been impossible to find up to this point, and”—he paused, nodding toward the bright pocket of torchlight and the strange group below them—“that’s not a meeting of her coven, people she’d trust. With that many dangerous beings in one place, she probably has a way to disappear once she leaves so that no one can track her. Maybe not even me.”
That was saying something. Storm had tracked Evalle to South America when no one else could find her. With the exception of hunting someone who’d teleported, Storm could follow a majik trail anywhere across the globe.
Evalle assessed the scene again. “And you don’t think this is some sort of sacrificial ceremony?”
“No.”
“Then what’s your guess?”
“Don’t need to guess. I know what’s going on.” Storm leaned forward against a tree, stretching his calves.
“You do?” She would have been glad to hear his decisive answer if not for her own budding empathic sense picking up on a sudden shift in Storm’s calm demeanor to one of tense anticipation, as if he expected trouble. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“Because I didn’t figure it out until just now. Take a look.”
She flicked another quick glance down the slope and did a double take.
Two males with humanlike bodies had entered the circle of torches. One had skin a putrid shade of green. He wore nothing but a sheath of gray material wrapped as a groin cover, and he sported a tail that dragged on the ground. His shorter opponent’s camo-green vest and brown pants were pulled tight over a squat bodybuilder physique bulging with muscles. He was the most human looking of the two, with his scraggly brown hair, except for the two short horns sticking out of the top of his head.