Mindbreaker (A Cassidy Edwards Novel Book 3) Page 11

  I never finished the sentence.

  The freezer door swung shut only to reveal the suave, svelte form of Lucian standing behind it with his arms casually crossed, listening to my every word with rapt attention.

  Crud.

  No recovery this time. He’d clearly heard enough.

  And double crud.

  He stood there with his shirt unbuttoned, exposing his yummy lean, tan chest with rock-hard abs. That wall of muscle never failed to distract me, and I really didn’t need the distraction right now.

  And what was that in those silver-blue eyes? The humor had returned?

  He turned his face to one side, showcasing the hard line of his sexy, chiseled jaw. Was that on purpose? He knew I had a thing for jawlines. His in particular. It simply begged to be appreciated. My eyes wandered down to settle on the hollow of his throat. Yeah, that was pretty tempting, too.

  Thankfully, Ricky’s spiteful tones sliced through my lusty thoughts.

  “Well done,” he spat from the confines of his blender. “You’re a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Can you ever rabbit!”

  Startled back to reality, I scowled back at him. “Rabbit?”

  “Chatter on,” Lucian supplied on the imp’s behalf. “He means you’re talking too much.”

  Ricky rolled his eyes and huffed. I ignored his antics and faced Lucian again.

  He’d moved to lounge against the refrigerator, and he wasn’t wearing any … shoes? Unbuttoned shirt. No shoes.

  What had happened last night? I racked my brain, but I didn’t remember a thing.

  “No need to panic,” Lucian chuckled, apparently reading my face. “No, I didn’t sleep with you last night.”

  Why did his tone disappoint me? “What happened?” I asked instead, but without waiting for the answer, I summoned a fierce, reproving scowl and charged, “You spelled me—”

  “Hardly,” he interrupted with a butter-smooth laugh. “Nothing of the sort. You were beyond exhausted. I carried you up here and put you on the couch. That’s all. Scout’s honor.”

  I hesitated. Recalling how tired I’d been, I could believe it.

  Lucian clasped his hands behind his back and strolled to where Ricky stewed in the blender. Bending down, he drew his mouth into a hard line of intense concentration and subjected the imp to a detailed inspection. “An elite, you say? Fascinating.”

  Crud. Yeah. He wasn’t going to let that go. I could practically feel Ricky’s eyes boring through my skull, blazing eyes that had left the hostility range and were obviously headed to uncharted territory on the anger scale.

  “What do I know, huh?” I asked lamely, scooping pots and lids from the floor. “It’s my imagination, nothing more.”

  Too little, too late.

  Lucian flicked the glass carafe with his long, elegant finger and straightened. “The legends say elites can heal,” he said, shrugging. “I sensed something very much like that yesterday in the cemetery.”

  Eh, that wasn’t good. Time to switch the topic of conversation. “Oh? Interesting. I’m curious, though, why did you stay last night?”

  He angled his head again and resurrected the gleam of amusement in his eyes. “The place was spelled again. Clearly, someone is very interested in you. Were you hoping there was another reason?”

  Distraction complete. Uncomfortable topic averted. But the ripples of delight shimmying down my spine at the mere timbre of his voice set off alarm bells of another kind. Yeah, well, I didn’t have time to engage in romance. It was back to evading my crime and the revenge business for me.

  Snagging the cushions from the floor, I heaved them in the direction of the living room, but as I did so, Lucian’s hand caught my attention. He’d ditched the glove. Red, angry lines crossed over his flesh in an almost geometric pattern. Odd. They’d been white lines before.

  He followed the line of my gaze and, smiling, flexed his fingers. “It’s complete now. They’ll fade with time,” he said. “But some form of it will always stay as a permanent reminder. By design.”

  I took it as an invitation to move closer and stare outright. It was a pattern, actually. Unusual. Almost beautiful. Some people would have probably paid money for that kind of tattoo.

  “What is it?” I asked. “True said it would change everything.”

  “Did he?” He raised a brow and smiled. “I suppose he is right.”

  When he didn’t continue, I couldn’t resist probing a bit further. “And that’s it? No more? You’re leaving it a mystery?”

  I should’ve left well enough alone.

  The moment his lashes dropped, I knew I was in trouble. “You want more?” he rumbled.

  He stepped into me again, moving me back with his chest and corralling me against the side of the refrigerator.

  “Shall I unravel the mystery that is Cassidy?” Lust thrummed under his tone as his lips dropped to hover an inch above mine.

  Unravel? Was that a fancy word for undress or was it about kissing me? I was up for either. After all, evading detection and revenge could wait a few minutes.

  A sizzling spasm of heat spread over me as his lips touched mine. His kiss was soft and gentle this time, and so very slow, coaxing responses that set my nerves on fire. Talk about polar opposite of our wild make-out session from before. But yet, it provoked a wealth of sensation on par to that experience—maybe even greater. With slow mastery, he captured my lips again and again with a dark, smoky kind of heat. I responded in kind, running my hands along his abs, up his shoulders, and threading my fingers into his hair.

  Yeah, he really had a thing for me touching his hair. He started talking. I tried to pay attention this time, but it was hard.

  After a while, I did catch one comment. “You’re bad for me,” he moaned against my mouth. “The kind of girl that I can’t resist.”

  Yeah, he was bad for me, too, distracting me from my concerns, but what was wrong with a few distractions here and there? I could get back to business afterwards.

  We kissed again. Deep. Strong. Long. A kiss of gentle yet scorching passion. I felt his hands slide up my back, his fingers leaving a trail, a hot swath of skin on skin. I wondered what ‘kind’ of girl I was. I knew what kind of ‘guy’ he was: dangerous and primal, raw, and an untamed tiger. The kind I apparently couldn’t resist, either.

  Again, I ran my hands over the hard wall of his lithe, tan chest, my palm unconsciously cupping over his heart. I felt him flinch under my fingers. Who could blame him? I’d almost drained him dry last time, reaping his life spark.

  The genuine reaction was enough to dampen the moment for me. I pulled my lips away.

  “You don’t trust me,” I said.

  He expelled a long breath against my neck and removed the warmth of his lips from my skin, only enough to whisper, “I need to get going.”

  “You’re walking away?” I asked, feeling borderline rejected.

  He reached down and twisted an auburn curl around his finger. “There’s no rush, sweetheart. We’ll continue this later.”

  Hmmm. Maybe. As I stared deeply into his blue irises so close to mine, I eyed the silvery threads of mana. He couldn’t hide his warlock powers. They glistened in his eyes for all to see. "What are you capable of?" I murmured in admiration.

  He knew what I was asking, but he twisted his reply toward the suggestive and answered two questions at once. “I’m certain you’ll find out,” he promised, the tone of his voice walking an evocative line. “One day.”

  Part of me thrilled at the answer, but a heftier part of me screamed to run. I twisted out of his embrace. Commitment wasn’t really a word in my vocabulary, and his game-playing smacked of a bit more than I was interested in.

  “Maybe,” was all I said.

  My response didn’t bother him. Maybe I was wrong.

  “Take the afternoon off, spend the time bonding with your handful of an imp,” he suggested, buttoning his shirt. “I’ve got a few errands to run with Heath, and Tabitha’s resetting the investi
gation.”

  It was really hard not to smile, hearing that. “I can help,” I offered. “What approach are we going to take?”

  “Your help isn’t necessary at this point,” he responded with a warm smile. “You’ve got a few hours before I need you at Emilio’s. Make it 8:00PM.”

  “And after?” I asked. Crud, why did everything sound so suggestive right now? Was it pheromones? Hormones?

  He hesitated, long enough to acknowledge the innuendo, intentional or not. “We’ll most likely call it an early night,” he said, an easy smile gracing his lips. “Can’t have you calling the Spellfinder’s Union.”

  A smile and a joke?

  “Are you feeling ok?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  He laughed, and stalking to the door, scooped his shoes up from the floor. After bowing with a flourish, he disappeared into the hallway.

  Odd.

  He was probably spelled. Or cursed. Yeah, it was clever if you thought about it—spelling a black warlock into a good mood so they couldn’t drop sarcastic and scathing comments. Wasn’t that the ultimate torture for someone like him?

  “Don’t mind meeeee,” a grumbling complaint issued from the direction of the blender. “Chuffed as nuts with yourself, aren’t you? And me? I’m just trapped here. Alone, abused, and unappreciated while you’ve been snogging that, that shirty, namby-pamby—”

  Crud. I’d forgotten about Ricky. Great. I’d had an audience. But that thought lost importance as I recalled once again that the testy wisp of smoke lounging in my blender was a fabled elite. Perhaps the only one. It figured that he’d have to be a turmeric addict.

  “You certainly don’t look like an elite,” I said, eyeing the puddle of goo with two blazing eyes sulking in the glass carafe.

  No answer. Only brooding silence.

  I lifted the blender lid a crack.

  He extended himself, popping his ears out first, followed by the eyes. “All that turmeric, washed down the drain,” he moaned. “Unless, it was a nitwit prank and—”

  “No prank,” I said firmly. “You’re getting clean. Time to see what life’s like without all that stuff muddling your system, huh? And if you’re an elite, who knows what you can do!” It was pretty cool, once you thought about it. The possibilities.

  He rolled his eyes, obviously more concerned about the turmeric than anything else. He cast a mournful glance at the drain and mumbled, “All of it. Blimey, did you have to ruin it all? What if someone fancies making a curry?”

  “You’ll thank me one day,” I snorted at his attempt.

  He tried another tactic, melting back to the bottom of the blender to peer up at me with two, large pitiful eyes. “It hurts,” he whispered, shuddering in pain and chattering his teeth as if he’d been tossed into the Arctic Ocean without a coat. “The pain! The paaainnn…”

  “Theatrics won’t work on me,” I replied dryly.

  He tried it a few more seconds before flattening his ears again and knocking the blender lid clean off. “Hoighty-toighty, love,” he snapped, his eyes spitting fire. “You can’t be that much of a nutter to go up against an elite now, can you?”

  I seized on the slip-up. “Ah, so you admit you’re an elite now, huh?”

  He only glared at me.

  I reached over and fondly scattered him, smiling as he quickly reassembled in an even worse mood. “You look about as happy as a wet cat,” I said, somewhat amused. Strange how my little puff of smoke had grown on me—irritating personality and all. I straightened and expelled a long breath. “Time to work, buddy. Get a move on.”

  I think it was then that he realized I might be serious about the whole thing. His mouth dropped open in complete shock. He rose out of the blender, enough to bang his forehead—well, as much as a creature of smoke actually can—against the lip of the carafe.

  “You don’t understaaaaaand,” he wailed. “I’ve been rat-arsed on turmeric for years! I caaaan’t go without! My head’s splitting already, just thinking about it.”

  Headache.

  You know how it is, when someone mentions a symptom and instead of offering a sympathetic ear, you immediately start thinking about yourself. Odd. Now that he’d mentioned it, I noticed my head hurt, too. A pressure squeezing on both sides. I stretched, brushing it off as a probable side effect of the Night Terror and specter-training.

  “Are you listening?” His voice rose in a crescendo.

  I jerked, betraying the fact that I hadn’t been. Whatever. “Enough. It’ll do us both good to get out of here,” I said, cutting him off before he could continue his tirade. “Let’s get something to eat. As Lucian said, it’s imp-bonding time. I’m up for a bite, and then how about a recon of the cemetery ourselves, eh? We’re not needed until later.”

  I needed to see what Tabitha was doing and what evidence I needed to clean up.

  Ricky wanted to object. That much was clear. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hold back a gleam of interest at the prospect of leaving the apartment. No doubt, his little brain already hummed with ideas on procuring illicit turmeric. He propped an elbow on the blender edge and gave me a cheesy grin, one of the insincere ones he specialized in. “Jolly good idea, duck. Let’s call it a peace-offering, eh? I’m in the mood for Indian. How does a spot of aloo gobi tickle—”

  “No, not giving you turmeric, even indirectly,” I cut in, reaching over to pinch his lips shut—but since he was composed of smoke, it was a symbolic gesture more than anything else. “You’re just starting to make sense. I need you sober from now on. You’re dang useful.”

  Again, he wanted to object, but there was a new gleam in his eye that made me pay attention. What was it? He couldn’t quite hide it. Interesting. Had the word ‘useful’ actually made him straighten and grow a little taller? I filed that fact away to be tested again later.

  “Fine,” he grumbled, slithering out of the blender to slip into my jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”

  “Right,” I said, patting him. “I’m changing first, though.”

  After all, when you fed off of people, you had to get close enough to bump into them. And being female, it was much easier to brush against men when you dressed the part of femme fatale. I didn’t take long, and soon enough I’d showered, changed, and tied my hair into a topknot while Ricky waited, obligingly snoozing in my jacket. After pulling on a pair of trendy, over-the-knee thigh-high boots—complete with knives—we were on our way.

  It was late afternoon and cold, but the sun was out and the sky, blue as we headed for Times Square, my feeding ground of choice. Even between holidays, crowds jostled elbow-to-elbow—especially on sunny days.

  Riding the subway, I scoured my memory for the little knowledge I’d gleaned on imps from the book in Venice. Yeah, imps loved human companionship the most—after turmeric—and then peanuts. I stopped at the first vending machine I could find that sold peanut butter crackers and bought Ricky a pack, stuffing them into the pocket he resided in. My reward? He bit my finger in his eagerness to get at them, but I knew it was accidental. The crunching issuing from my pocket sounded like a buzz saw. Note to self: crackers are a bad idea.

  I emerged out onto the street and helped myself to mana as Ricky happily hiccupped from the confines of my jacket. I wasn’t choosy this time. It wasn’t really a proper meal as much as a refueling. I wanted to spend my extra time in the cemetery before heading back to Emilio’s. I had to get ahead of the investigation. No more Charmed surprises for me.

  It took longer than I planned before I finally felt full. Apparently, specter-training increased the appetite as well as induced headaches. The pressure had increased in my head as I worked my way through the crowd. I rubbed the back of my neck, wondering how long the side effect would last.

  Finally, I headed back towards the subway. Along the way, I passed a bakery selling peanut butter cookies and bought one for Ricky’s dinner. He woke up at once, zipping the treat from my fingers.

  Suppressing a smile, I waited amongst the crowd for t
he pedestrian light to turn green.

  The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long, orange shafts of light over the buildings and people surrounding me. The strange lighting caught my attention, making the place look both busy and calm at the same time. It was one of those timeless moments in life, when you almost feel as if you’re not really connected to your body, but standing just out of it a few inches, or maybe operating it from a remote control. Everything appeared so surreal, so distant.

  It was then that I noticed a reflection in the store window behind me. A man, standing off by himself, the sun’s glow highlighting the side of his face.

  Yeah, there were a lot of men around me and most were definitely interested, but this one was very different.

  It was his body language. The way he stood there, viewing me in rapt attention—most definitely not in the male-ogling-a-curve-fitting-ensemble kind of way. No, it was more … clinically calculating?

  And was that a classic Roman nose? Dark hair. Olive complexion?

  I choked.

  No. It had to be my imagination. It’s still daylight, Cassidy. Vampires can’t stand in direct sunlight, no matter what popular literature and the nonsense on TV tries to sell otherwise.

  I crouched down, pretending to inspect the heel of my boot before turning his way as fast as I could.

  He vanished, but not before I caught a better glimpse of his face.

  There was no doubt about it.

  He was a dead ringer for Emilio.

  Interessante … er … Interesting

  “You’re late,” Lucian accused the instant I emerged from the apartment’s elevator.

  He lounged against the wall directly opposite, looking wickedly hot in a slate-blue t-shirt under a stylish black jacket with a stand collar and his hands tucked into designer ripped jeans. I knew the abs under that shirt were just as ripped.

  Focus, Cassidy. Focus.