This Wicked Magic

Leaning over the red leather-bound book, she inspected the page that put out the slightest odor of chicory when touched. The spell name, In Which the Dark Is Stopped, was scrawled in tiny ink marks.

Most grimoires promised the impossible. Only a truly powerful witch could achieve something so grand. He’d said he had mastered many magics, yet was weak. Perhaps CJ would be powerful had he not a soul weighed down with so many hitchhikers.

She perused the required ingredients. A few common herbs, and some less common: rat’s spine and troll blood. The process was something else entirely. It required the name of an angel who had extinguished heaven’s light. Angel names were not easy to come by.

“Impractical, yes?”

Jarred from her intent study, Vika spun around and squeaked out a distressed cry.

“Sorry.” He stood before her, a kitchen butcher knife in hand. “Just checking you didn’t fall under the spell of bedazzlement some do when they stroll under the lights.”

“They certainly do have the power to dazzle.” She pressed her fingers on the top of the blade he held and directed it downward to his side. “Be careful. If you want my help, you’ll need to keep me intact.”

“You’ll help? I thought I’d frightened you away for sure. Or that Menace had.”

“I’m much tougher than you believe. Most certainly wary, but also fascinated for reasons beyond my ken. I trust you are different from the demon who has shown itself to me.”

“Thank you for that trust.”

“You have earned my cautionary trust.”

“I’ll accept that.” He nodded toward the grimoire. “You think you can work the spell?”

“I don’t know. It is impractical. To erase darkness from the world for twenty-four hours?”

“True. And what good would it do me to gain but twenty-four hours? I want these bastards out, not merely pacified.” He pointed to his chest with the knife, which made Vika cringe. “It was just a consideration. I’ve many more grimoires to go through, but not a lot of time in which to browse them.”

“Your job at the archives keeps you busy?”

“That, and trying to stay in the light and alive.”

Such a simple goal—to stay alive. One she took for granted daily. Surely, a grander challenge than merely protecting one’s soul from an angry soul bringer.

Pleased she’d decided to stop by and had gotten a glimpse into this fascinating man’s life, she took the knife from him and walked toward the kitchen. “Do you need help? Oh.”

A bowl of salad waited and two plates had been set out on the round, glass-topped table. A sexy purple bottle of crème de violette sat in an ice bucket. It was a quaint, romantic scene, one that stirred her heartbeat faster. Totally unexpected, and yet it prompted her wariness about the man’s intentions.

But overall? Nice.

Certainly reached around and grabbed the knife from her grasp. “Dinner is served, mademoiselle.”

It felt too easy. A little bit right. And not at all wrong standing next to Vika and washing dishes like an old married couple. Graceful in her movements, she did not set a plate aside for drying until it had been scrubbed sparkling. She was easy to talk to now they’d gotten past her mistrust of him. Not completely, though. CJ knew she wasn’t going to let down her guard around him, and he expected as much.

When they’d finished, she washed out the sink and dried that, too. Was he supposed to do that after dishes? Whoda thought?

Vika folded the drying towel and placed it neatly on the counter, then straightened the chairs before the table and blew out the beeswax candle, squeezing the homemade wick to a fine point. When she blew, her lips pursed and CJ had to lick his lips at the sight. So kissable.

“Have you a broom?”

“Huh?” Snapping up from his stupid stare, CJ twisted his thoughts around her strange question. If he let her go much longer, she might start picking up the clothes on the floor, and he did own a vacuum somewhere in this mess.

Vacillating on the pros and cons of letting the witch go to town on his disaster of a life, Certainly decided he couldn’t let it continue. Not on the first date. That was for making a good impression, not tricking the woman into manual labor. And yes, he was calling this a date for his own personal fulfillment.

He didn’t do dates. One-night stands, casual encounters leading to sex and no returned phone calls, were his standard. Busy with work, always, and never inspired to seek consistent companionship, Certainly had lived up to his best friend Lucian’s nickname for him, Brother. It implied a monkish lifestyle, and CJ could not deny it.

Though he did desire. And since returning from Daemonia, his aspirations and life outlook had changed. He wanted—no, craved—closeness with a woman. And standing not ten feet from Vika, having watched her smile and chatter about the spells she and her sister were practicing over supper, and now feeling her wonder as she inspected the chandeliers, he felt the desire rise and the need to explore the tender and wanting emotions he’d ignored over the years.

“No broom, and I insist you stop trying to clean the place. Let’s have an after-dinner drink.”

He poured a small narrow glass of the crème de violette for her. It smelled of violets, but he preferred the spicy chartreuse, which he poured for himself. They clinked glasses, and Vika sipped hers, while he swallowed his measure in one tilt.

“Isn’t chartreuse made by monks?” she wondered. “And so many herbs in it. I think the taste would get lost.”

Pouring another draft, he offered her his glass. “Smell.” She leaned in, closing her eyes, and drew in the aroma. It took all his control not to reach for her porcelain cheek and brush a finger along it. Not yet. “Each time, you smell something different, taste the tarragon, and then the anise, or even the mountain lavender.”

“I’ll stick with my sweet liqueur,” she said, curling her wrist toward her as she sipped the violet concoction. “I like things sweet. Now, you are a little bit sweet yourself.”

“Me? Sweet?”

“You’ve a decidedly cedar scent that rises above a mix of many other herbs. I like it.”

“Must be from the herbs I use for spellcraft. I don’t pay much attention.”

“It must be difficult for you, if you’re such a powerful witch, to have that power depleted by the demons.”

“It is, but they cannot deplete the greatest of my powers.”

“Which is?”

“Well, it’s been said a witch’s greatest power is not theirs to wield. Rather, it exists in the minds of others.”

“Oh, yes. What someone believes you are capable of may be the power that holds them back, whether or not you possess such power. It is the power of the mind.”

“Belief,” Certainly chimed.

“I agree with that.” She smiled freely, tipping her glass to his in a bright ting.

Paused in the center of the kitchen looking about—for more cleaning work, he presumed—Vika set her glass aside as he reached her. He moved in for a kiss. It was quick and a little off her mouth. A hint of violet liqueur hushed out at her startled gasp. He’d screwed it up, and he pulled back with a wince.

Mouth open, she gave him a stunned once-over. “What was that?”

“It was an awful, botched attempt. A horrible kiss, as far as kisses go. Sorry.”

“Never apologize for a kiss.” She clutched the front of his shirt, pulling him down to her mouth, and kissed him.

More intrigued than startled—although he was still kicking himself for such awkward first contact—Certainly stepped in closer and slipped an arm around behind her slender back. All he’d needed was a test kiss and an acceptance from her. He relaxed now, and Vika’s mouth melded against his. Of course, he should expect nothing less than perfect from her. Perfect looks, perfect life, perfect kiss. And suddenly he wanted to mar that perfection, to imprint it with his own rough and messy darkness.

Hand gliding up against the back of her head, his fingers diving into the soft garnet braid, he deepened the violet and chartreuse kiss, clutching her tighter and teasing her to answer his force if she dared. She didn’t balk. The witch wrapped her sorcery about his intentions and pulled tight, taming his sudden wildness until he moaned into her mouth. Her hair, silken and slick under his exploring fingers, pulled free from the updo and tumbled over his face and neck. It spilled endless streams over him, ensnaring, capturing, tying him up in her delicious net.