Chapter 6

Burning Wood

Baldwin had refilled her glass twice in the last hour, and had sent for another bottle to be brought up. It had certainly done the trick in calming her down. She was sat back by the fire on a sofa cushion and was demonstrating to everyone her pointe abilities with her skinny feet, occasionally grumbling when her ankles didn't bend as smoothly as she hoped.

"You're a ballet dancer?" Ysabeau asked, always one to appreciate the finer things in life.

"Of a sort. I don't get many parts. Too tall. Standing over 6'2" with blocks isn't something they want next to a male dancer. Dad insisted of me learning every dance style I could. Contemporary, lyrical, jazz, acrobatic, ballet... I only get ballet parts when I'm not dancing with men. Often leaves me out of practice. It led to a lot of burned blocks in my teen years." She wriggled her toes, allowing them to ignite in a glowing simmer.

"How come you got into dancing? It's not a usual witch career," Diana asked.

"My dad. He thought it would help me focus my emotions and allow things to flow. I had trouble controlling the fire when I was young. I lost count of the pieces of clothing and furniture I destroyed. Made mum angry, which just made things worse."

"I can understand needing something as an outlet. I started rowing when I went to school in Oxford. I also took up running and yoga. Anything to give focus and drain off all that pent up emotion," Diana added.

"Dancing makes you strong and supple. I was a natural at yoga, which a lot of dancers take up to help build stamina and patience. There's no expectation from the teacher in yoga, so it's really relaxing for us. I haven't done it for a while though," Athena replied, pulling her legs into a full lotus.

Diana and Athena compared poses for a while until it was time for her and Matthew to return to Les Revenants and their children. Ysabeau disappeared to say goodbye and Baldwin excused himself to retrieve a third bottle of wine, leaving Athena to settle on a sofa alone.

He took his time selecting a bottle, trying to pick one that wouldn't remind him of her scent. Could he be feeling attraction? No. It was nonsense. He tolerated Diana because Matthew had picked her, and she'd given birth to his niece and nephew. He didn't like witches. Not after Phillippe. But in reality, he knew that using Phillippe as an excuse was as weak as water. She was certainly physically attractive. He'd never dated a witch in his entire life. He'd dated many vampires, and the occasional human. Daemons were too unpredictable for him, and were often afraid of him. The only daemon who had ever stood up to him was Agatha on the Congregation, a fact that outwardly irritated him, but secretly he was impressed by. He appreciated a strong woman.

By the time he'd made a selection and returned, Athena was asleep on the sofa, breathing slowly and deeply. He looked at her for a while, then decided that she'd be more comfortable back in bed. He picked her up much as he had when he'd rescued her, carrying her back to Louisa's tower without jostling her. He was struck once again by the warmth of her skin. He'd expected that she'd notice how cool his hands were, but she didn't stir as he placed her down on the bed, pulling the sheets over her. He stood watching her again, that drumming rhythm of her blood lulling him to sit beside her, watching how her eyes flickered under her pale lids.

He had no idea how long he sat there watching her sleep, but he found his hand moving to brush her cheek, a gentle gasp escaping her lips as her face moved towards his hand, her blood rushing to the surface as her bloodsong increased in intensity a moment. Before he could rationally contemplate what he was doing, he leant down and inhaled her scent deeply, the urge to growl almost overwhelming him.

He bolted upright, his mind reeling from what he had done. This was insane! He must be craving human blood. He needed to go into the village and find a willing donor. Maybe then he'd stop behaving like a teenager.

He left her to sleep and went out to hunt, stopping in the village for a donor or two. Fully sated, he returned to Sept-Tours, collapsing into Phillippe's chair and pulling up his email. He had meetings upon meetings scheduled for later in the week, and he decided that going back to New York might help him get his head in order. Some normality couldn't hurt.

By the time Athena had awoken, Baldwin was already in his jet back to New York. He spent the flight checking over the details of several deals he'd been working on, calculating the financials, and arranging further meetings. His subordinates had been nothing if not efficient in arranging everything around his schedule, his absence barely registering to most in regards to the running of his company. In reality, he could run his company from anywhere in the world.

Upon arriving at JFK, his driver was waiting to take him to his penthouse in Manhattan. A fierce suit would convey the right amount of masculinity and commanding presence. Nothing pinstripe. In truth, he didn't own a pinstripe suit. Far too stiff and old fashioned. Something in a midnight blue with the waistcoat to match, a burgundy silk tie, and a polished pair of Oxfords.

Barely an two hours later, he strode into his office building, numerous workers scattering out of his way, and his pretty redhead secretary handing him an Americano coffee, and his messages. He thanked her, ignoring the fluttering of her eyelashes. Normally, he gently encouraged such behaviour. It kept her loyal and eager to do whatever he needed her to do at work. But somehow it didn't feel right at this moment.

He kicked his office door shut and went through his messages. Mostly work related. He sat and drank his coffee, looking over the details of his first meeting. A small company acquisition. Family-owned. They were in trouble with debtors, and had been all over America looking for investors. Baldwin of course had swooped in to buy the company from under them, the profit alone from breaking it up and selling it off would more than offset any debt.

During the meeting the owners had done everything they could to plead their case, asking for money to be invested rather than bought out. Emotional manipulation had been employed, the eldest owner talking incessantly about passing the company down to his son, and so on and so forth... Baldwin had yelled at him to stop being such a snivelling weasel. That the reason his company was in trouble was because of the bad decisions he'd made over the years with shares that had plummeted through the floor, losing millions for the shareholders.

The owners had eventually admitted defeat, taking the offered bailout to pay off their debt, and signed over the company to Baldwin. Mission accomplished. Normally, he would feel a rush of satisfied power. But today, he only felt restless, irritated, and a little more empty than usual.

Before he could dwell any longer, Marcus called him.

"Marcus. Is there a problem?"

"We disposed of the witches and cleaned out the tunnels. I just wanted to check something though, did you punch the one you killed?"

Baldwin frowned. "No. Just a snapped neck. Why?"

"That's what I thought, and that's what I did too... It's just odd... One of them had a broken nose and a bruised eye socket, and not from after death. The other had several broken metatarsals on his right hand, and bruising to the skin. Again, from before death. Do you think perhaps we weren't the first to try a rescue?"

Baldwin contemplated the notion a few moments, then smiled. "No, I don't think anyone else knew where she was being held."

"Well, whoever did it was trying to do some damage. I suppose they could have fought amongst themselves," Marcus mused.

"Perhaps. Is that all?"

"Oh, yes. You're back in New York?"

"Of course. Rescuing witches in distress isn't exactly my full time job." Baldwin tried to sound put out by the prospect.

"I guess not. If I learn anything else, I'll let you know." Marcus hung up.

Baldwin dropped his phone on the desk and smiled. His mind was instantly on Athena. Those injuries had to be her work. Even in the week he'd spent in her presence, he'd quickly recognised that she wasn't the type to go down quietly. She might have been spellbound, but he could certainly imagine her lashing out in any way she could. He wanted to ask her about it. But, he was in New York, and she was at Sept-Tours. He couldn't exactly call her. Maybe he'd return in a week. See how she was doing and reassure her that the witches were gone. Not that he truly believed that she needed it. Perhaps the excuse of stopping by her place in England to check on things and make sure no witches had gone snooping, as well as retrieving some more of her things whilst she continued to recover, would be more believable. He wouldn't admit to himself why he really wanted to see her place.