A/N Hi guys! I have no idea why it changed all the names back to the Fiction Press version, so I've changed them back while a cat is sitting on my head. My phone is across the room and I can't move to get it.
Chapter One
She watched him. Despite the darkness, Mike felt those cold eyes observing every breath he took, every curse, and, to his shame, every uncontrollable whimper.
A single candle flickered from a round table. Just enough light to appreciate her handiwork, he thought bitterly.
Next to the candle, if he focused hard enough, he could make out the familiar lines of his dagger. A blade he received the day he completed his training to become a Warrior. He'd used it to kill, to defend. He even used it to slice the skin off apples. Now, it lay on a table, slick with his blood, stolen and used against him.
She did this to me, he thought, gritting his teeth against the pain wracking his body. Yes, he attempted to kill her first, but he intended to make it quick. Painless, Mike thought, somewhat hysterically.
The witch had shown him no such leniency.
How long he'd hung there? Mike didn't have a clue. Long enough for his fingers to turn to ice, for the blood to drain from his arms as he hung like a piece of meat. Fortunately, his arms moved past agony a while back. Now, when it came to his abused limbs, he felt nothing. A bad sign, right?
Luckily, the rest of his body still made him want to weep for mercy.
Mike may not know where she'd taken him, but he'd seen enough horror movies for his imagination to run wild. Knowing his luck, she'd taken him to some dingy basement, in the middle of nowhere. Not another soul for miles. No one to hear him scream. Or, he'd wake up in a few hours with one of his kidney's missing.
He tried, through his swollen eyes, to make out his surroundings. He didn't see windows or any indication of where he might be. Aside from the light the tiny flame of the candle gave off, he was in darkness.
Mike didn't even know how he got here. The last thing he remembered, waking up next to a beautiful brunette.
He struck first, but even with enhanced speed, he hadn't been fast enough. Raising her delicate hand, she tossed him across the room like a ragdoll without laying a finger on him. The last thing he saw before falling unconscious was her standing at his head, promising him he'd regret his actions.
Since waking up, naked, hanging from his wrists, she'd clawed at his bare skin, beaten him, slapped him. Threatened to castrate him using his own dagger. Sweat beaded his forehead at that one. His entire body shaking violently when he felt the whisper of steel against his favorite appendage.
She laughed, he remembered. She gleefully informed him that's what happened to men who toyed with her. Then she rammed a blade into his upper thigh, just missing his femoral artery.
A good thing, Mike thought wryly. He'd much rather she continue to slice and dice his poor, abused flesh, than quickly bleed to death.
"Tell me who sent you, Mike. I'll let you live. Lie to me again, I start taking fingers."
Mike looked toward the sound of her sultry voice drifting from the shadows. While her face remained hidden to him, but her eyes glowed. The mark of a witch, he knew. All witches' eyes, dark or light, good or evil, glowed a magnificent gold when using their abilities.
And she used hers against him plenty. But nothing compared to the time she held his weapon over the flame, a makeshift branding iron, searing the letter J into his beaten flesh. Mike blanched at the memory.
When he got out of this, he vowed, she'd feel true pain. She'd be bound, unable to defend herself, while he sought vengeance for every wound he suffered. The humiliation he endured because of her. The image of her torture, her suffering, almost brought a smile to his abused lips. Oh, yes, he'd make her pay.
Reports of a witch's depravity, her thirst for others pain, was the reason his commander sent him to Brooklyn. From what his gaffer informed him, someone as evil as the witch needed, at best, obliterating. Captured, at the very worst. Now, after everything she put him through, Mike believed the reports didn't do her justice.
"No," he gasped out, finding it difficult to speak, to breathe. He'd been hanging too long. A human wouldn't survive it. Mike, for all his strength, didn't have much time left. He needed to find a way out soon, or game over.
You're kidding yourself, he thought. It's already game over. You're as good as dead.
Mike accepted the knowledge with a flood of self-recrimination. He underestimated her, overestimated his own skill and strength. His arrogance bit him on the ass. He would die this night. All he could do now is protect his brothers.
Try as she might, she'd never uncover who sent him by messing around in his head. Long ago, his people created a fire wall of sorts, protecting their identities should one of them be taken, and tortured, for information. Like the very situation Mike found himself in now. Let her rifle through his mind all she liked, she'd never find the information she sought. The only way she'd discover who sent him, is if he told her. Mike refused to betray his people.
He glowered, as much as possible with a mangled face, at the witch. Her luminous eyes giving away her location.
"I won't tell you a damn thing."
Her laugh was, perversely, beautiful. "That's what they all say, Mike. At first. But everyone has a breaking point. As you can see, I have a talent for finding it for them."
His beaten body shook violently, fire shot through his veins at the implication of the number of men, women, and god help him, children, who found their breaking points thanks to her.
Revolted by her, unable to find the words to express the force of his rage, his fury, he spat at her. An action he abhorred, but seemed appropriate for her.
"Fuck you," he snarled.
"You already did that." Chuckling, she stepped into the light. Looking up into his eyes, she added with a small smile, "I enjoyed myself immensely."
Shame surged within him. Never a man of exceptional morals, he did as he pleased, regardless of what others might think. He didn't deny his selfishness, refused to feel guilt for taking what he wanted. The only ones he truly gave a damn about being the men he fought alongside. They weren't men of exceptional morals, either.
Still, he chided himself, I shouldn't have slept with her.
Regret left a bitter taste on his tongue. Why did he do it? Why didn't he think with something other than his dick? Taken her out on the spot? Mike knew if he died tonight, and she went on to kill others, their blood would be on his hands.
Mike thought back to the night he met her, remembering just how badly he'd wanted her. Needed her.
Among his brothers, Mike was famous for his promiscuity, but he'd never let his libido interfere with a job before. Yet, the moment he laid eyes on her, all he thought about is how she'd taste, the way she'd look writing beneath him. His orders vanishing from his mind, she consumed his every thought.
Despite his reputation, his actions were out of character. He'd seen beautiful women before, enjoyed many hot and sweaty night's with too many to count, but never let it affect his duties. So why did he that night? Or better yet, what did she do to him?
The bitch must have done something to him. In his heart, his gut, he knew it.
Mike yearned to turn back time, to walk into that club with one of his brother's there to watch his back. Or a way to fight whatever magic she'd used against him. Maybe then, he wouldn't be here, agony ripping into him like broken glass through soft flesh. Shame threatening to engulf him.
He couldn't turn back time, though. Too late for that now.
Receiving commands from his superior, he tracked her down. A evil witch who liked to prey those weaker than herself. Easy. He planned to take the witch's heart before she knew what hit her. The world a safer place without her in it, he'd go home, and finish the movie marathon he started hours before.
A simple job, if not for the way he reacted to her. Strolling into the bar that night, eager for rush that came with taking out an enemy, he looked forward to the hunt. Only once he saw her, breathed in her scent, his plans went out the window, his good intentions no longer mattered.
To Mike, she looked like an angel. Still did, even as she stood below him, his blood staining her hands. A gleam of cruelty in her golden eyes.
She stunned him with her beauty, tempted him with her mouth-watering, womanly figure. The black dress she wore clinging to her breasts. Her curves made it almost too easy to brush aside his true reason for being there that night.
Mike, the seasoned Warrior, disappeared. In his place, a lust-filled male, determined to nail the breath-taking woman in a revealing black dress.
He approached her as he would any woman he intended to bed. Sauntering up to her, confident, almost arrogant, he asked her to dance. She glanced up, wide brown eyes taking in his muscular form. She smiled, he remembered. Placing her hand in his, she allowed him to lead her to the crowded dance floor.
A mistake of epic proportions. He came to kill her, not bang her. But he didn't care. He didn't care about his orders, or his commander's disappointment. The woman grinding her body against his was a monster, and he dismissed it.
She'd been out of this world. Doing things to him he never imagined, never mind tried with another person. They spent the night pleasuring each other, until finally falling into an exhausted sleep.
A spell. It must be a spell, he thought again. Shagging her was one thing, sleeping with her another altogether.
He woke the next morning with a clear head, Mike remembered, confirming his suspicions. Whatever spell she'd cast now over, he hissed a curse for the mistake he'd made.
Mike reached his blade without hesitating. His Warrior persona kicking in swiftly, he braced himself to take the life of the woman he spent the night with.
If only she slept a litter longer.
Opening her eyes, she saw the blade in his hand. He readied himself to face her rage. To his astonishment, she whispered, "About time, isn't it?" Lifting her hand, she used her gifts against him.
Mike didn't stand a chance.
He underestimated her strength, Mike understood now. He assumed, fully alert with magic at her fingertip's, she'd be an easy hit. Or, most likely, he overestimated his own strength. Believed his enemy a small, vulnerable woman, easily disposed of. Nothing he couldn't handle. He continued to believe it, despite becoming aware of how easily she manipulated him in the club.
His arrogance placed him in this position.
With a growl, Mike fought his restraints. Desperate to escape, he tried to break the shackles holding him hostage. His jaw clenched tight, face turning red as he used the last of his strength to gain his freedom. Body slick with blood and sweat, veins bulging along his arms, his neck and temple's, he grunted, ignoring the blood tEleazarling down his arm as metal tore into flesh. All to no avail. His attempt a failure, it depleted the last of his strength. "This is pointless," he snapped. "I'm not going to tell you a damned thing." Oh god, he hoped he spoke the truth. In all his years, he'd never broke before. In training, in battle, he never gave up his men. But he'd never felt this weak before, either. After what must be days of torment, he just wanted it to stop.
She huffed. "Well, perhaps if you hadn't attempted to stab me in the heart with a dagger, I might agree. But you did, so I don't," she quipped. Suddenly, her angelic features morphed into those of a screaming banshee. Mike recoiled at her sudden change. "Tell me who sent you!"
Blinking rapidly, his ears ringing from her piercing screech, his hatred for her gave him the energy to defiantly grind out, "No."
Rocking back on her heels, she blew out a frustrated breath before visibly calming herself. "Fine. We'll do this the hard way." Reaching up with a delicate hand, she cupped his face. A face bloodied and bruised thanks to her. His once handsome features, now a mess. Disfigured from the force of her blows.
The witch began to speak in a whisper. A sound meant to soothe him, Mike assumed. A soft voice lulling him into a false sense of security. Even if he fell for it, the pain pulsing through his body proved an excellent reminder.
"Just tell me who sent you, Mike. If you do, I promise, this will end. You can go home. I won't come for you. I just want a name."
He remained silent. Regret weighing heavy in his heart, he accepted his fate. He'd die in this shit hole. In the dark, hanging from his wrists, surrounded by the stench of his own piss and blood.
Her lips tightened. "Fine. But know this—many men have hung here, deluded themselves in thinking they can withstand one of my favorite games. I enjoyed breaking them. They spilled their guts. Told me everything I wanted to hear before I ended their miserable lives. It's a lesson I enjoy teaching, one I look forward to sharing with you. After you do, the second you give up the bastards who sent you, I will cut out your heart. Gut you with your own blade. And after that," she continued darkly, "I'll hunt your people down. Bathe in the blood of everyone you know. Everyone you love. So, I'm going to give you one last chance to save yourself. Give me what I want."
Mike knew these were no idle threats. The witch meant every word. She'd hunt down his brothers, kill everyone involved. Everyone he cared about.
She would put him in the ground. Break him, like she did with all the other unlucky bastards who had the misfortune to cross her path. The only thing he could do now is keep his mouth shut. Soon, his people would discover his death. And hunt her down, he thought with a grim smile. His only regret now, he wouldn't be around to see the bitch pay for her crimes.
He smirked at the witch. It hurt, but he refused to wince at the pain it cost him. "Go to hell."
You're strong, Mike assured himself as she grasped his beloved blade in her small fist, glided with the grace of a dancer toward him. I can handle this, he told himself, chanting it silently in his mind. He almost believed it too, until she raised the blade, bringing it down, viciously sinking his dagger into exposed flesh. White, hot pain consuming him, against his will, Mike tossed his head back and screamed.
#
Jessica Donovan wiped the blade, staining the brilliant white cloth red. Satisfied, she examined the male she cheerfully sliced to ribbons. Laughed at his eventual pleas for mercy. A man who, only hours ago, she invited into her bed, taken into her body.
A handsome man, with muscles she wanted to take a bite out of. And did. Great in the sack. Even now, hanging there like a gutted pig, he still appeared alluring to her.
It took Jessica longer to break him than she'd thought. He tried so hard to remain strong, stoic, and she admired him for it. But like all the others, eventually, he begged, pleaded with her to stop. She dismissed his pleas, of course. Instead, dragging the embedded blade down his chest, tearing flesh and muscle, enjoying his cries of agony as warm blood coated her hands, ran down his body, dripping onto the stone floor.
Jessica placed the cloth slowly on the table, a small crease forming between her brow, darkening her beautiful features as she remembered his broken words. His final words.
The Bràthaireil.
Jessica brought her hand to her lips, grazing blood-stained fingertips across her lower lip, and she tried to think of a way out of this mess. Growing up, her adoptive parents taught of her such creatures. A brotherhood founded in Scotland, a bunch of Warriors who think they're so big and bad—most likely because they are the strongest of their kind.
And they're coming for me, Jessica thought, biting down on the tip of her thumb.
She'd always known someone would come for her, eventually. She killed many throughout the years, making more than a few enemies. Only she'd hoped, when the time came, it might be someone a little easier to defeat.
Not knowing who would, or when, the attack might come, fearing they might strike from behind, she wore a glamour. A trick she'd perfected over the years to ensure whoever laid eyes on her will be helpless against her. Unable to resist her.
It worked wonderfully with Mike.
Did he really think her ignorant to his identity? Was he blind to the power clinging to him like a second skin? Of course, once her glamour wore off, his initial intentions returned. He attacked swiftly, but she quickly took control of the situation.
From the moment he approached in the nightclub, she'd known his true identity. Not a horny human asking her to dance, but a Warrior, mid hunt. To her frustration, while scanning his mind she came up against an impenetrable wall when searching for those who sent him. Now, she knew.
Jessica enjoyed lying. Making up fun little stories and manipulating others, but she never lied to herself, and didn't intend to start now. She couldn't take them on alone and win. From what she'd learned of them, they'd hunt her down. Never stopping until they destroyed the witch who slaughtered one of their own. Until they decimated her, or died trying.
Maybe she should lay low for a while, she pondered, pursing her lips. Give herself time to think, to plan. Find a way to take out the Bràthaireil before they got to her.
An idea popped into her mind, tugging her lips into a slow smile. Her golden eyes gleamed. The idea forming in her mind was forbidden, she knew. Carlisle might blow a gasket, but she couldn't care less. Her heart leaped in excitement. With the idea in her fresh in her mind, happiness rippling through her, she declared no other course of action acceptable.
Ecstatic, Jessica left Mike's naked body dangling, rushing from the room without a backward glance. She needed to pack. If she moved quickly she'd be there by morning, away from this mess and finally see the only person who truly mattered.
Yes, she must go at once. The sooner she departed, the sooner she arrived.
The door closing behind her, she whispered to herself, "It's time to pay my baby sister a surprise visit."
#
"Keep your hands up, kid," Edward Campbell commanded sharply, landing yet another blow to the younger male's jaw.
Tyler Kendrick blinked hard, shaking his head, and resembling a wet dog, in a bid to rid himself of the high-pitched ringing in his ears. Edward packed one hell of a punch. Only weeks away from completing his training, he'd yet to get a hit in against the infamous Warrior.
"I'm tryin'," Tyler muttered.
Well past midnight, the two men had been going at it in the boxing ring for over an hour. Stubbornness a strong trait in the Kendrick family, Tyler refused to quit until he got in at least one hit. So far, all he managed to do is volunteer as his mentor's punching bag.
Bone tired, hot and sticky with sweat, and, despite the head guard, Tyler ached like a bitch.
Located in the basement, steel-colored walls matched the carpeted floors in the immense gym. The brightly lit space a fitness fanatic's dream. In one section, a nearly endless line of exercise equipment—treadmills, cross-trainers, exercise bikes. Despite what people assumed, Warriors, like humans, worked hard to keep up their stamina.
In another section, sat an array of weights. Warriors in general held incredible strength, but if a male wanted to join the respected brotherhood, average strength wouldn't cut it. The males trained for it, pushing themselves hard, pilling on weight after weight. Observing them, Tyler feared their bones might snap, just like that dude from the internet.
In Tyler's favorite part of the gym, wrought iron monkey bars, as well as punching bags, speed bags. And, a boxing ring where he delighted in getting his ass handed to him. Like now.
Edward scoffed. "Tryin' isn't good enough. Forget we're in a boxing ring. Act as if you're out there, on the street. If you run into a demon on patrol, and you can't defend yourself, you're dead. We may not be human, but we still need to protect our heads, kid. One hit can knock you out cold, or blur your vision. It can give a demon the upper hand. One hit to your face can be the difference between life and death. You need to do better," he stressed.
Do better? He thought. Against Edward? A legend amongst the Bràthaireil. Edward. As a child, Tyler decided to join the legion of Warriors, like his father before him—all because of the man standing in front of him, sweaty and frustrated.
Edward, a legend, who fought dirty? He might be known as a stylist-a boxer who relied on skill rather than brawn-, but he fought dirty.
The first time Tyler stepped inside the ring with Edward, much to his humiliation, he'd been caught cold. After that, his once playful mentor became ruthless in the ring. Tyler woke up confused, sore, his cheek pressed against the canvas, too many times to count. Edward's unrelenting beatings came from a good place, he knew. His mentor wanted him to succeed. But it still hurt like a bitch.
He signed up for this, Tyler reminded himself, rolling his sore shoulders. He'd take every beating, every broken bone, and each laceration, with a smile. If it meant earning a place within the respected brotherhood, he'd do it. Every male in his family served with the Bràthaireil.
Tyler refused to end such an honored tradition.
The Bràthaireil, the best of the best. Accepting only the strongest, the fastest in their ranks. A place amongst them wasn't handed to a male because he happened to be born a Warrior. He must earn it through hard work, blood, and yes, tears.
Tyler would do anything to join their ranks.
"I'm ready."
Approval lit Edward's green eyes. But before they could continue, someone shouted out, bringing them to a halt.
"Edward!"
Both turned to face the male standing near the entrance of the gym.
"Yeah?"
"The gaffer wants you in his office."
Edward used his forearm to wipe the sweat dripping into his eyes. "Now?"
He sneered. "No, next week. Yes, now." Spine rigid, he excited the gym without another word.
A muscle jumped in Edward's jaw, his steely eyes narrowing as the man disappeared from sight. Tyler did not envy the male when his mentor caught up with him. Another bit of information he gained since moving into the stately home, no one disrespected Edward. Edward earned his position, the respect of his brothers, through hard work, skill, and sheer ruthlessness on the battlefield. No one got away with talking to him like that. Not even Emmett, commander of the brotherhood.
Edward turned back to Tyler. "Hit the punching bag, kid. Remember what I told you. From now on, keep your hands up."
"Yes, sir."
Edward ducked through the ropes. Dropping to ground on steady feet, he strode out of the gym.
Nope, Tyler didn't envy the man one bit.
#
Little prick, Edward thought sourly, exciting the basement gym.
"No, next week," he muttered under his breath, mockingly. "Very fucking original." Edward didn't recall the man's name, but he planned to find out.
Continuing his muttering, he made his way through wide hallways of the secluded house he called home since the age of eighteen. One big frat house, in his mind, with countless game rooms and nothing but beer in the refrigerator. None of them exactly skilled in the kitchen, they ate out often. Either that or starve. Or balloon up to the size of a house from all the fast food they'd order.
It beat living in some dingy apartment, that's for sure.
The priceless art, antique furniture, and architectural beauty of the building, all lost on the men who resided within the elegant home.
On the day Tyler arrived, he looked up, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, mumbling something about walking onto the set of Downton Abbey. Clueless to his mumbling's, Edward noted he looked impressed.
Reaching the office of Emmett Gordon, Edward didn't bother knocking. Emmett, Edward's mentor long ago, when he trained to become a Warrior. His teacher, his inspiration. His confidant. Eventually, they became friends. Edward encouraging him to apply for the role of Commander. Then, once Emmett earned the position, they'd gotten blind drunk in this very office. After all they'd gone through, the ups and downs; he considered such common courtesies as knocking unnecessary.
Perhaps they should, Edward thought, thinking back to a time when he barged in the office to see Emmett, bare-ass naked, on the sofa with a blonde bouncing on top of him.
He swung open the door; saw Emmett pacing back and forth his extravagant headquarters. The walls a warm brown, the furniture costing more than Edward made in a year. And, of course, a fully stocked bar. Many nights they talked into the small hours of the morning over a glass of scotch.
While Emmett made an excellent solider, he desired more than to come home to his family with fresh wounds night after night. Not that he had a family, yet, but he wanted more for himself. He told Edward of his plans as they stood over his father's open grave. Heavy rain pouring down, Emmett vowed he wouldn't die in the dirt like his father. And his father before him.
Emmett became the commander. Now he sent other people to die in the dirt, he quipped one night. Both men, after drinking a little too much, found it hysterical, and spent the rest of the night drinking themselves stupid.
Emmett nodded once in acknowledgment. Edward noted his friend's jerky movements, his rigid shoulders, and tensed. Something's wrong, he realized.
Emmett lifted his chin, gesturing toward the corner of the room where three people sat on the luxurious leather couch.
Oh, this is just terrific, Edward inwardly groaned, his eyes zeroing in on the gorgeous strawberry blonde who sat on the couch as if a haughty princess surrounded by filthy commoners.
Tanya Beckett, tall and beautiful, looked up, her pale blue eyes shooting daggers at him. Shouldn't have slept with her, he decided.
They'd shared a few rolls across the sheets, a few laughs, when she hinted at wanting more. Edward didn't and she hated him for ending things between them.
She'll get over it, he dismissed her, turning to face his friend.
"What's going on?" he asked Emmett.
"Mike's dead." Emmett spat out the words. Cold, brutal, they threatened to knock his legs from under him.
Edward recoiled. "What? When? How?"
A skilled, experienced fighter, and quick on his feet, Mike threw a punch that left a man dizzy for days. He'd nearly won a few rounds with Edward in the boxing ring.
Edward's breath caught, his mind refused to accept what Emmett words.
Emmett exhaled heavily. "I tasked Mike with hunting down a woman. A witch drawing too much attention to herself in Brooklyn. Not the good kind of attention, either."
Edward held up a hand, stopping him. "Wait, he got taken down by one witch? I don't believe it."
Tanya spoke from the sofa, her voice cold as winter as she said, "Well, believe it. Besides, she's no ordinary witch."
Edward ignored her. His gaze remained on his friend, his leader. "Are you sure?" Mike, cocky, funny, movie-obsessed Mike, dead? Murdered by a witch? No.
Emmett nodded once, his eyes unreadable. "I felt him take his last breath, Edward," he replied gruffly. "He's dead."
Nodding slightly, his heart sank in grief at the loss of his brother, Edward accepted the truth.
Once a male completed his training and joined Bràthaireil, he received a dagger of his own. During the initiation ceremony, he used that very blade to slice his hand, making a blood exchange with his commander. From that moment forward he shared a connection with his leader until death. Emmett would know the instant Mike left this world.
Now that Edward accepted the what happened to his slain brother, vengeance rushed forward. A dark, vicious craving, clawing at his gut, demanding to be sated. "Where's the witch now?"
"That's where they come in." Emmett nodded toward the set of witches sitting uncomfortably on the couch. "I sent men to Brooklyn when he didn't answer my phone calls. They've found his body, but the witch has disappeared. They're looking for new leads, but they say it doesn't look good. No one can find her," he added, disgusted.
"If no one can find her, why are they here?"
Tanya huffed, folding her arms across her chest. "Because, thanks to us, you now know who you're searching for."
"I ordered the men I sent to Brooklyn to track down the witness who identified the witch to Mike, but she's dead," Emmett explained, both men ignoring Tanya's outburst. "Murdered. Her throat slit. I recalled most witches can mess with people's heads. I recollected Tanya's gift to project her thoughts into other minds, and presumed, if someone saw Mike with the witch, Tanya might be able to see, and then project the image to me. We'd have a face to search for."
Carmen, a pretty thing with a mass of dark curls and large brown eyes, cleared her throat. "While Tanya can see into minds, project her thought's, sharing what she sees with others, I can see the moments leading up to a person's death. I don't need to be near the body, but it makes it a hell of a lot easier. My gift takes a lot of concentration. I need something of the victims, like an item of clothing, as a channel to lead my spirit to theirs. I see what they see, feel what they feel. If their death is recent, I can potentially see up to a week before his or her death."
"What did you see?" Edward demanded harshly.
Her shoulder's stiffened at his brusque tone. Thanks to his short time with Tanya, he recalled witches didn't care for orders. Right now, with grief weighing heavily in his chest, he didn't give a shit what they cared for.
"Go on," Tanya encouraged her fellow witch.
"I saw him receive his orders from Emmett. I felt his annoyance. He didn't want to stop watching a slasher movie on his couch. I saw him meet with the witness, and finally, approach the witch." She hesitated. "He slept with her," she added uncomfortably.
Edward gaze remained steady, in no way shocked by his late brother's actions. Known for banging everything in sight, why would Mike let a little thing like an assignment, or her being his target, keep him from bedding a woman?
"What happened afterward?" he asked, knowing they'd most likely already gone over this, but needing to hear it for himself.
Carmen shifted in her seat. "After they…finished, they fell asleep. In the morning, when he woke up, he went for her. A real prince," she drawled.
Edward's brow furrowed. He didn't doubt Mike would happily ignore his duties if it meant getting laid, but to spend the night? Leave himself vulnerable to attack? It didn't make sense.
"You didn't even know him," Benjamin, another of Edward's brothers, hissed from his spot in the corner of the room. Upon entering, Edward noted his brother's presence, but didn't pay him any attention after that.
Out of all his "brothers," Benjamin kept to himself the most. He rarely spent time with the other's, unless on a battlefield. Edward didn't know why Benjamin sat in on the meeting, or why he appeared so furious over Carmen's comment.
Her expression one of disgust, she replied scornfully, "I know instead of killing a dangerous monster, he decided to get a piece of ass. I'm sorry your brother died, but I refuse to ignore that he squandered his opportunity because he wanted to get laid."
Before Benjamin could make another outburst, Edward shot him a look that told him to shut his damn mouth. "Continue," he ordered gently. He didn't blame her for being pissed off. Mike messed up. And it cost him his life.
Carmen took a deep breath. "The witch saw him coming, and she's powerful. Sent him flying into the wall with nothing more than a flick of her wrist. He woke somewhere dark. A pipe dripped water nearby. Other than the glow of a candle, he didn't see much. The things she did to him—barbaric." She shuddered. "Inhuman. He held out for as long as possible, but eventually, he couldn't take it any longer. I'm sorry, but he gave you up. After that, she didn't need him anymore."
Edward turned to Emmett for confirmation. He nodded, his face pale beneath his scruff of beard. "I let Tanya in my head. She's telling the truth."
Edward gaped, shocked Emmett allowed her to show him anything. Ever since a bad experience involving a telepathic witch, he believed in building strong mental walls. While witches entered most minds easily, not when it came to Emmett. They needed permission to enter his mind.
Letting Tanya in proved his desperation to find the woman who murdered one of his men. It also meant he experienced every moment of Mike's torture leading up to his demise.
No wonder he looks like shit, he thought.
"Okay," Edward began. "You said we don't know who she is, or where to find her. Can someone please tell me what we do next?"
Eleazar, the only male among the witches, leaned forward. "That's where we come in. After Carmen shared what she saw with us, Tanya recognized her."
Tanya asked, "Have you heard of the Rose coven in England? Or the Sayer coven in Wales?"
Edward shrugged. "Sorry, I don't really keep up with the news in Witch Weekly."
She gritted her teeth at his response. "The Rose coven is one of the strongest, most prominent covens in England," she began slowly, her features pinched in anger. "My mother, who lived in London at the time, told me of Amelia Rose. Three decades ago, Amelia fell in love with David Sayer. The community considered a good match. Both from powerful families, both attractive, and highly skilled in witchcraft. Their marriage united two extremely powerful covens. A year later Amelia fell pregnant. But to everyone's surprise, instead of one baby, she delivered twin daughters."
"They're witches. If she were having twins, why didn't she know it from the beginning?" Edward wondered. He didn't see how a witch could miss something so obvious, powerful witch or not.
"Yes, they are witches," Tanya agreed, "but they're not midwives. I don't know why it came as such a surprise to everyone. Pregnancy with witches has never been straightforward. Like most of the supernatural world, we're discouraged from seeking out medical professionals, who would have known. As to why they didn't, who knows? It's possible Amelia's, perhaps the twins, magic, influenced things somehow. May I continue now?"
Edward smirked at her impatient tone. "Of course."
Tanya looked like she wanted to deck him. "Apparently, everything was wonderful. The babies happy, and thriving. Until, like something out of a bad fairy tale, one day a psychic came to them. Spoke of a curse placed on their daughters. No one believed him, at first. Such beautiful, healthy babies, cursed? Soon, it came out David's elder brother, a man his own blood believed unhinged, didn't share his family's happiness over his David's marriage. When Amelia fell pregnant, it's said he became overcome with jealously. He resented his brother's perfect life. The way my mother tells it, he sought out a dark witch to create a curse. To end his brother's happiness. What neither he, nor the dark witch, knew as they created the curse, is its instability. Made more so, because they created it with one child in mind. Just like everyone else, he didn't know Amelia would give birth to twins."
"What's it created to do?"
"Apparently, even Stuart, David's brother, as batshit crazy as my mom said he is, couldn't bring himself to harm a child. Instead, he cursed her to become a force of great evil, knowing his coven would deem the child too dangerous to live. The covens would do the dirty work-destroy David's happiness-for him."
"But she gave birth to twins. If the curse they created is unstable, how did the second child affect it?" Emmett asked curiously.
Tanya replied, "If anyone else created it? Nothing. But, apparently, Stuart never held much power, not in comparison with his brother. It didn't help when he chose an old, crazy dark witch, either. The curse, already volatile, altered somewhat with the birth of the second female."
"How?"
"The psychic who informed the covens of the twin's fate, was unable to determine which baby held true evil within her heart. Avery, the eldest, or Clara, the younger twin. Did it even matter who came into the world first? No one could tell. What he did know, is how the birth of twins altered it. Declaring, one day, while one sister would live with evil in her heart. The other, would live with only goodness."
"Seriously?" Edward demanded in disbelief. As far as curses went, it didn't sound very impressive.
Tanya nodded. "Sounds stupid, I know. But his plan worked like a charm. After everything came out in the open, they took Stuart prisoner. David demanded he be executed. Only, he escaped. Never to be heard from since. With Stuart gone, and the witch refusing to remove the curse, they didn't stand a chance. No one knew how to break it. David and Amelia feared what came next. My mom witnessed the day the covens passed their sentence. To destroy the twin's at once, before the curse came into fruition. For the greater good," she added flatly.
"Fucking witches," Emmett muttered, pouring Edward a scotch. He didn't to offer anyone else a drink.
Edward accepted the drink, surprised his fingers were steady as he lifted the glass to his lips. While he appeared calm on the outside, inside he trembled. Rage at the loss of his brother burned like a hot fist in his gut. Thirst for revenge a vile taste in his mouth, no amount of scotch could wash away.
Eleazar scowled. "I don't think you are the ones to judge anyone right now, Emmett. A decision as grave as this wouldn't be made lightly. Unlike your people, we need to think of the greater good. We do what needs to be done, despite our emotions. We don't shag the enemy first, then call ourselves heroes," he finished scathingly.
Once again, Benjamin shot to his feet. "Shut your mouth," he thundered. Edward noted his trembling form, his flushed cheeks. Evidently looking for a fight, he'd found his opponent.
Eleazar's light brown eyes flared gold, a visible sign of a witch tapping into their power. "Make me," he goaded.
"Enough," Emmett snapped. His attention turned to Tanya. "What does the Rose coven have to do with this? I remember hearing a little about this when it happened. They're dead, right? They went into hiding, but didn't survive more than a month. Their own family came in the night. Set the house ablaze while they slept."
Edward thought himself lucky he'd been born a Warrior, and not a witch. Yes, they taught him to withstand pain, mental torture, even to kill at the age of five, but his people wouldn't dream of murdering helpless babies.
Jesus, witches are brutal.
Carmen said, "That's what our people believed. Until you came to us, and Tanya recognized the woman from the vision."
Carmen got to her feet, ambling over to Emmett's antique desk. The group moved closer, gathering around to watch her wave delicate, heavily ringed fingers over a crystal bowl filled with water. Seconds later, to his amazement, a woman with red hair appeared in the bowl.
Emmett sucked in a sharp breath. Cheeks turning a mottled red, fury swirling in his bright gaze, he glowered at the image. "It's her," he announced. "It's the bitch who slaughtered Mike."
"No," Tanya disagreed calmly. "The woman you see is Amelia—Amelia Rose. Who would be in her fifties, if she still lived."
Edward exhaled quietly. "You think they survived. The daughters."
"I do. Both David and Amelia had powerful allies. They might have given their children away for safekeeping. It explains why the woman who killed your friend is the double of a witch supposedly murdered three decades ago."
The door burst open. Jasper Morgan, Edward's closest friend, rushed into the room. Average height, quietly handsome, he acted like a teenager half the time, but he was one of the few people who made Edward laugh. "I found her," he spoke directly to the witches.
"What?" Edward demanded.
Jasper spun on his heel to face him. "Hey, bro. When they arrived, Eleazar gave me this," he handed Edward a piece of paper with a detailed drawing of Amelia Rose on it. "I scanned it through DMV, FBI, basically anything where you'd find photographic identification. It took me a while, but I found her."
Placing the open laptop on the table, he pointed at the screen. "Meet Isabella Stevens, twenty-eight years old, resides in a small town in Georgia. She's single, lives alone. Bought her house from her parents a short while ago, and keeps a pretty low profile. The woman doesn't even have a Facebook page or a Twitter account. Who doesn't have a Facebook page?" he muttered under his breath.
"Do you have anything else? Where she works? Who her friends are?" Emmett demanded, before the man continued rambling about the woman's lack of a social media account.
Jasper shook his head. "Like I said, she tends to keep to herself. However, because I am magnificent, I hacked into the street cameras in the town where she lives. From there, I found out where she works—part time at both the veterinary clinic and local diner—the supermarket where she buys groceries. Even the hair salon where she's got a monthly appointment. I called them," he explained with a shrug of his shoulder. "All paid for in cash, by the way, which I didn't think anyone did anymore."
Jasper placed his shiny laptop next to the image of Amelia Rose. After tapping a couple of keys, a video began to play. "There she is," he said, pointing to footage of a woman walking down a sunny street.
"Got her." Jasper beamed.
Emmett narrowed his sharp eyes. "I don't think it's her."
"What? Of course, it's her," Jasper insisted. "She's the spitting image of the sketch Carmen gave me. It's her."
"No. It's not. Look, I saw everything Mike did, too. He had sex with this woman. He saw every inch of her without a stitch on. He knew her body. I know her body. It's not her."
"He's right," Carmen said. "While the face is practically identical in features, if you zoom in." She leaned over to do just that, pressing her thumb and index finger to the smooth screen, gradually spreading them apart, unaware of Jasper's outraged expression.
Despite everything, Edward's lip twitched in amusement. No one touched Jasper's stuff. Unaware of how close she came to losing a finger, Carmen asked, "Do you see? Her body is a different shape. It's fuller, rounder. And she moves differently. The witch from my vision moved like a Siren. Every step sensual. While this woman is just as graceful, she moves differently. She holds herself differently."
"I agree. The body is all wrong," Emmett added. "The witch has a va-va voom figure." He mimed an hourglass figure with his hands. "Perfect breast's, great ass, but also like she's put some time in the gym. This woman is…fuller."
Edward made a face. He didn't appreciate the tone of Emmett' voice when describing the woman's figure. He happened to like curves on a woman.
Jasper huffed. "Who says this isn't the witch's real identity? Perhaps she turns into a psycho bitch on weekends? Like a hobby, or something like that. She might use padding for her day-to-day life. She's smart, right? She'd know how to change her appearance. Besides, if Isabella Stevens is not the witch, then who is she?"
Edward answered him. "Her sister."
Jasper's lips curved into a sly smile. "The sister, huh? We have leverage. We can use her as bait."
Benjamin sneered. "I vote for tracking Isabella Steven's down and slitting her throat. It's one possible way to bring her whore of a twin to us."
Carmen shook her head adamantly. "No. You'll be making a huge mistake, if you do that."
"Why? She butchered our brother—we butcher her sister. It sounds good to me."
"No," Eleazar objected firmly. "This may be coincidental. There is no proof this girl is the witch, or even related her."
"Yet," Jasper said quietly.
"Yet," he agreed, grudgingly. "Let's say she is. If you harm her sister, a woman whose only fault is sharing DNA and a face, the witch will come down on you—hard. You know she's dangerous. It's where your friend went wrong. All he saw is a pretty face, and a hot body. He let his guard down. He underestimated her. Who's to say she won't join with your enemies, gather her own allies, and declare war, because you harmed a single hair on Isabella Stevens head? Or she doesn't give two damns about her twin sister, and you murder an innocent woman for nothing? That, I promise you, is something we won't allow. We agreed to help find your brother's killer, to stop her before she harms anyone else, not aid you in the murder of an innocent woman."
Edward huffed. "You couldn't stop us," he stated arrogantly.
Tanya challenged, "Try us."
Everyone instantly on edge, eyeing each other up, determining whether a fight was imminent.
You'd need a chainsaw to cut the tension mounting in here, Edward thought.
Jasper cleared his throat, ending the tense silence. "May I make suggestion?"
Emmett nodded once. "Go ahead."
"I say we send someone to the town where she lives. He, or she, there's no place for sexism here, can get close to Isabella. That way we can ascertain whether or not Isabella Stevens is the witch's alter ego. If she isn't, if she's her twin, we use her to get information on the sister. Maybe even discover her location. Let's see if this woman is useful to us before we go at her with a kitchen knife," he suggested dryly.
"I prefer that plan," Emmett replied, lowering himself into his seat.
"That's if she even speaks to her sister. For all we know, Isabella has no idea her sister is alive. Let's track her down, find out what's what, so we can move forward. Avenge Mike's death."
"No," Benjamin argued. "We know where she is. It must be her. Let's move in now before she has the chance to run."
Slowly, Emmett turned his cold gaze on him. "Last time I checked, I'm still the one who makes the decisions around here. I agree with the witches, with Jasper. There is no need to harm this woman, make her aware she's on our radar, if it isn't necessary."
"What if she doesn't know? What if her sister doesn't show up?"
"She will," Eleazar stated confidently. "You're not the only ones tracking her. Your brother's not the only one she's murdered. There are a lot of people who want this woman's head. She's on the run, where else can she go? Besides, they're family. They'll stick together."
"Fine," Emmett replied. "We'll play it safe. If we get nothing from Isabella Steven's, if she truly has no relationship with her sister, we move on."
Jasper spoke up. "We still need to treat her as a suspect. I still think there's a good chance she's altering her appearance to make it look like she's two different women."
He nodded in agreement. "You're right. Until we're positive this girl is the sister, then we act as if she's the witch. Whoever goes to Georgia will need to be on constant guard around her. In the meantime, I'll get the men in Brooklyn to comb the area again, see if we missed something before."
Benjamin cleared his throat before speaking. "Sir, I'd like to volunteer to go to Georgia. Contact the woman."
"No," he refused in a tone that brooked no argument. "You're too emotional when it comes to this. You'll sit this one out."
His teeth came together with a snap. "Then may I ask who will be going?"
Emmett turned Edward with a smirk. "You are."
Edward resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, he'd get the shitty job. He would have preferred to join the others in Brooklyn. Instead, he got stalker duty.
Like Emmett, he didn't believe this woman and the witch were the same person. Who went from killing a Warrior in Brooklyn one night to shopping for cat supplies in a nothing town the next day?
He bit back a sigh. "Okay. But she's a witch. Won't she be able to sense who I am?"
Carmen said, "I know a way to make you appear human. I left my thing's at home, so I'll need to get the ingredients, but I've done it before. It's not difficult."
He smiled. "Fun times," he drawled. "Well, if you'll excuse me. I've got some packing to do."
Hours later, he arrived in Georgia. Ready to begin in his mission.