The only thing more dangerous than the beast that wants her dead is her desire for the demon sworn to protect her.
© Julie Harrington. Cover Design by StormCloud
Grey witch Emma Harlow is no stranger to the monsters that hunt the night. She’s lived her life on a razor’s edge between Good and Evil, always managing to stay this side of the shadows. Barely. But when an unstoppable beast targets her for death, the hunter becomes the hunted. Forsaken by her coven, Emma turns to the only ally she has left with a dangerous proposal he won’t be able to resist.
Caszel Be’Phar, demon warrior of the Fesha Order, has no patience for wics who play with dark magick, then cry foul when that darkness bites back. But there’s something different about Emma, and it’s not just the payment she offers for his services. Every touch, every kiss, casts a spell and, for the first time, Caszel is confronted with a force he cannot fight.
The deal is struck. The trap baited. And as their enemies draw closer, so do Emma and Caszel. Before this battle is over, they’ll discover the only thing more dangerous than the creature that wants Emma dead is the flames that ignite whenever they touch… and someone is going to get burned.
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EXCERPT
“Why have you summoned me, Emma Harlow of the Shadow-Nih?”
She blinked and jerked her head back at the sound of her name, her coven’s name, from his lips.
He did smile then, but it was far more menacing than the scowl. “What bidding do you bring me, little witch, that makes you stray from your path of light?”
“I need protection.”
His brows arched high. He rocked back on his heels. “Then draw a circle. Is that not what your magick is for?”
“That won’t work,” she argued when he shifted as if to stand and leave her. “I’ve tried that.” Tried many times. The defenses always failed. Her enemy kept getting through. The last time… Emma shivered and pressed her hand to her stomach. She couldn’t let her attacker get that close again. If she did, the only way out of this apartment would be a body bag.
“I need you, Hahona,” she said. “That is why I invoked you to appear. I need your help.”
Those snow-blue eyes darkened. Shadows moved through them as if something were alive within their depths – something sinister and evil. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipped her face up to his.
“So tell me, little witch,” he murmured as the pad of that thumb traced the dimple in her chin, her bottom lip. His eyes never wavered from hers. “Just how much are you willing to pay?”
CHAPTER ONE
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Emma Harlow paused, her hand poised to light the last of the black pillar candles arranged on the bedroom floor of her apartment. She darted a quick look at the woman who hovered in the shadows near the door. “Probably not.”
Fear, doubt, and uncertainty flooded through her again, but Emma dipped the tip of the butane lighter to the candlewick and lit it anyway. The flame flickered, caught hold, and grew. Emma withdrew her hand and set the lighter on the nightstand. She tucked a long tendril of her black hair behind her ear before reaching for the book she’d left open on the bed. Her hands trembled. Did Clara notice? If she did, the willowy blonde didn’t call her on it.
Emma skimmed the book’s list of instructions once more before comparing the accompanying illustration to the arrangement of candles. Perfect. She cleared her throat. “Okay. That’s it. I’m ready.”
“Emma, I don’t know about this. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
It wasn’t a good idea. It was a bad one. Really bad. Borderline suicidal, actually, but what choice did she have? The police weren’t going to help, and Emma couldn’t defend herself. Not against this. Plus, she was out of allies and tired of running into closed door after closed door. Everyone she went to – even those who’d claimed to be lifelong friends – had turned their back on her. So much for loyalty and camaraderie. They’d all abandoned her to certain death. Well, all of them except for Clara Pierce.
Emma smiled at her friend, loving and respecting her more than ever. Clara hadn’t wanted to help at first, of course. She was an eternal Good Girl, the one sure to follow all the rules. But she and Emma had been through too much together to simply stand on the sidelines and watch the other sink. At the same time, Emma knew Clara’s position, influence, and reach was limited by that same Good Girl nature. As a result, there was only so far Clara could go. Only so much she could do. That left Emma with one last desperate choice if she wanted to stay alive. Considering she was only twenty-six, she hoped Death would hold off for at least another sixty years.
So it all came down to this. Her last resort. What was it her grandmother always said? Desperate times call for desperate measures? Emma was most definitely desperate.
Emma placed the book on the floor at her feet. She slipped her hand into the front pocket of her jeans for the piece of paper she’d tucked there earlier. She unfolded it and, as she smoothed out the lines and creases, glanced at her friend. “You should probably leave now.”
Clara’s jaw dropped. She looked at the candles, the book, and up again. “Are you kidding me? I’m not leaving you alone.”
“Clara.”
“No, Emma. You might need help. You might need—”
“Clara.”
The other woman stopped.
“It’s better if I do this by myself.”
Clara shook her head. “I never should have given you that damned book.”
“I asked you to.” Technically, she’d begged.
Clara rubbed her forehead. “The coven’s gonna have my neck.”
“The coven,” Emma said, as she studied the sigil drawn on the paper in her hand, “can kiss my ass.”
“You should at least draw a circle. Nine feet.” Clara fumbled for her purse. “I brought chalk—”
“No!” Emma jerked her head up. “No, the book says no ritual circles. Any precaution like that, any attempt to control a demon after performing a summoning, will only enrage it.”
Clara raked her fingers through her blonde hair. “This is insane, Emma. You have to protect yourself. You can’t just let that creature into your home without any idea what it will do to you.”
“Yeah, well.” Emma tipped her head toward the glass of water and the platter of fruits, breads, and meats – if one could call pre-packaged, factory-processed cold cuts ‘meat’ – she’d placed on her nightstand. “Let’s hope that’ll be enough of an offering for it, because the only other food I have is a box of macaroni and cheese, and I’m all out of milk.”
“That’s not funny.”
It wasn’t meant to be. It was simple truth. From what little Emma knew of demonic summoning, the key ingredient was Respect. All the books agreed and stressed the same vital points. Don’t piss off the demon. Don’t insult said demon. Don’t mock it. And maybe, just maybe, if she was nice and polite, and could offer something of interest in return, the demon might be amused enough, bored enough, or intrigued enough, to agree. Maybe. Possibly. Or, conversely, it could decide to chew her face off, eat her heart, and then pick its teeth with one of her cracked ribs. It was a coin flip.
Emma hurried to Clara’s side. She caught her elbow and shepherded her toward the bedroom door. “I don’t want you here. Go home.”
Clara dragged her feet. “You’re only saying that to protect me. You don’t want me here in case something goes wrong.”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong.”
“But it could.”
“It won’t.” Emma opened the door and gestured to the hallway. “Go.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
“You probably won’t hear from me for a couple of days. Don’t worry about it, okay? But if, at the end of the week…” She swallowed, glanced over her shoulder at the candles, and shivered. “Cover your own ass with the coven. Tell them I stole the book and blame everything on me.”
Clara’s shoulders sagged. Deep frown lines carved themselves at the corners of her pinched lips. “Emma.”
“Go.”
Her friend wanted to argue. Emma could see it in the telltale way Clara’s eyes narrowed and her mouth puckered. In the end, the blonde silently gathered her coat before walking out of the bedroom and down the hall to the foyer. Emma waited until the front door banged shut and the deadbolt clicked into place. Once they had, she turned back to her bedroom.
Midnight cloaked the benign little space where she normally meditated and slept. Shadows seemed longer. Deeper. All of her protections – her crystals and her guardians, even her cat – were nowhere to be seen.
Emma released a long sigh as she rubbed her suddenly chilled hands together. She approached the center of the room. “Okay,” she said, her voice loud in the quiet apartment, “let’s get this show on the road.”
She toed her shoes off and nudged them aside. Sinking to the floor, she crossed her legs, rested her hands easily on her knees, and closed her eyes. It felt odd to try and draw this much power without being sky-clad, but if the summoning ritual went wrong, and if – by the grace of the Goddess – she actually got the chance to escape, the last thing she needed was to be arrested on Madison Street buck naked.
Emma exhaled, long and low. Her lashes lifted. She focused on the makeup mirror propped up in the middle of the candle arrangement. The flickering flames cast shimmering, slithering light on the walls where their radiance battled writhing shadows – opposing forces of the Universe. Light and Dark. White and Black. Good and Evil.
She let her eyes drift shut and conjured the magickal symbol from the book in her mind. Surely if those forces could exist in harmonious balance, this plan could work.
It had to work.
Or she died.
Her brow furrowed. She forced the pessimistic thought away. Negative energy wouldn’t help the situation. Calm. Clear. Focused. That was the key.
Her breathing deepened. Her heartbeat slowed. The sigil took shape in her mind’s eye. Emma latched on to it, finding hope in the archaic symbol and solace in a design that should have instilled fear.
“Obey these words of power,” Emma said, her lips barely moving, each word rising and falling with the smooth rhythm of her lungs. “Watchers of the threshold. Keepers of the gate. Unbar the guarded door. Obey this command of this servant of power.”
Time passed. How much, she didn’t know. She even lost track of the number of times she repeated the summons before the candle flames snapped low, then tall. The air turned cold. Darkness pressed frigid fingers to her closed eyelids, and the heady scent of sandalwood incense spun the room around her.
Silence burned her eardrums. A chill whispered over her arms, across her shoulders, down her back to her waist and around to embrace her.
Emma shivered.
The room stopped spinning.
She was no longer alone.
~ * ~
It watched her from the dark. Impatient. Curious. Powerful. The weight of its gaze kicked her once-calm heart into triple time. Excitement and trepidation sped through her bloodstream. Her palms moistened. Her stomach churned.
All she had to do was open her eyes and accept the apparition however it chose to manifest itself – an image in the scrying mirror or a vision in the mix of candle and incense smoke.
Eyes squeezed shut, Emma stayed as still as a mouse waiting for a cat to pounce.
Waiting.
Nothing.
Nothing happened.
Silence stretched. The clock in the living room continued to tick. Somewhere, in one of the apartments above her, a TV sang with canned laughter.
Then… It moved.
Feet – impossible to tell how many – scraped over the bedroom’s floorboards. Forward? Backward? Emma couldn’t tell, but the sound went through her like a shot. She flinched. Her eyes popped open.
She expected a vision. She anticipated a shimmering shape of indistinguishable form that the demon could use to bridge the gap between her world and its realm. What she got was boots. Real, solid, thick-soled, black boots with a scuff on one toe and… was that blood?!… on the other.
Emma’s heart shot into her throat. It wedged there, making it impossible for her to take in air or speak. Her gaze dragged upward, as if controlled by someone else’s will. This was impossible. All her research assured her demons rarely appeared in the flesh. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
But there he was.
Right in front of her.
And tall. Very tall. Even if Emma had been standing, he’d have towered over her five-foot, seven-inch frame. But sitting as she was, he felt like a mountain eclipsing her, an unforgiving mass of muscle and black leather.
Emma’s gaze moved up his rock-hard thighs to a trim waist cinched by a black leather belt and silver buckle that glimmered in the dark. More leather. Flat abs. A wide chest covered in black cloth. The material didn’t look like leather, but the tight fabric clung to every muscle of his torso and every ripple and line of his eight-pack abs. The dark sleeves molded massive shoulders, hugged bulging biceps and the honed curve of his forearms. Snug fitting cuffs emphasized the thickness of his wrists. Her attention shifted to his hands. Two of them. Human looking. Big hands. Strong, violent hands capable of God knew what and crisscrossed with old scars that spoke of ancient battles and bloodshed.
Holy Goddess, he was a machine of war. The power of destruction and death showed in every inch of him, radiating from every brawny pound in a thick, black aura of absolute lethal power.
Emma looked at his face, not because she wanted it to, but because she had to. Her heart stuttered at the blunt, shovel-like square of his jaw, the dark stubble that shadowed it, and the firm, sensual mouth above a gnarled, crescent-shaped scar on his chin. The only other visible flaw was the crooked bump of his nose, as if it had been broken several times and left untreated.
Her focus lifted a fraction of an inch higher. Her dark truffle-colored eyes met his ice crystal blue ones.
Bam!
Power arced through her, punched straight through her solar plexus, and struck Emma’s spine before it shot upwards into her brain. It rattled her skull and rang her ears. The chill still wrapped around her tightened its hold. A hundred frozen claws dug into her skin and sank to the bone.
Time and space warped, lending the sensation that Emma was tumbling forward. Her knee bumped one of the candles and toppled it, spilling melted wax across the floor to pool in the grooves between the planks. That’s when Emma realized she was moving – the denim of her jeans creating the perfect slide across the slick floor as the demon simply willed her closer with his powers.
He crouched, leather creaking with his movements, as she glided to a stop at his feet. A moment later, Emma found herself nearly eye level with him. His hair was lighter than she expected. Not blonde, but the color of winter ale, and worn long as well. The thick, loose locks framed his forehead and temples, making the planes and angles of his face hard and merciless.
He leaned forward. One hand dropped to his knee, the other to press flat against the hardwood of her floor. His nose brushed the tip of hers. His breath – warm and spiked with amber, spices, and cedar – fanned her cheek. He sniffed, scenting her, and his lips parted as if he could taste her on his tongue.
He shifted closer. His nose skimmed her cheek before strands of his hair fell forward to tickle that same flesh. He eased back. Those icy eyes glittered. Amusement? Annoyance? Emma couldn’t be sure. Maybe both.
Did demons, like cats, play with their prey before they devoured it?
Emma swallowed.
His head cocked to the side. Those frosted eyes studied her, unblinking for an inhuman amount of time.
Finally, Emma moistened her lips with a sweep of her tongue. “I… Thank you for answering my summons,” she said, aiming for strong and confident, yet only able to muster a throaty whisper. “You honor me with your presence, Hahona Fesha.” She gestured to the food and drink. “I bring you nourishment as offering.”
He barely glanced at it. The corners of his mouth firmed in a downward curl.
Crap. Maybe she should have gone with the mac and cheese.
“I, um, call upon you for your wisdom, experience, and—”
“Why,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice a gravelly growl that shook her insides, “have you summoned me, Emma Harlow of the Shadow-Nih?”
She blinked and jerked her head back at the sound of her name, her coven’s name, from his lips.
He did smile then, but it was far more menacing than the scowl. “What bidding do you bring me, little witch, that makes you stray from your path of light?”
“I need protection.”
His brows arched high. He rocked back on his heels. “Then draw a circle. Is that not what your magick is for?”
“That won’t work,” she argued when he shifted as if to stand and leave her. “I’ve tried that.” Tried many times. The defenses always failed. Her enemy kept getting through. The last time… Emma shivered and pressed her hand to her stomach. She couldn’t let her attacker get that close again. If she did, the only way out of this apartment would be a body bag.
“I need you, Hahona,” she said. “That is why I invoked you to appear. I need your help.”
Those snow-blue eyes darkened. Shadows moved through them as if something were alive within their depths – something sinister and evil. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipped her face up to his.
“So tell me, little witch,” he murmured as the pad of that thumb traced the dimple in her chin, her bottom lip. His eyes never wavered from hers. “Just how much are you willing to pay?”
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