American Witch Page 11

  But right now he needed to focus on more urgent matters. His magical talent didn’t lie in healing, but he knew basic spells to mend damage, and that was really all she needed. It would also be a kindness to cast them while she was still unconscious.

  He took several photos quickly in case she decided to press charges, and then he started with the head wound since that injury concerned him the most. It was still seeping blood, so he carefully pinched the torn skin together and held it with his fingers while he cast spells, pausing only long enough to verify that her body had absorbed one before moving on to the next.

  She began to stir, and he muttered a mental curse. Healing damage was a painful business as the magic forced the body to knit together. They weren’t going to get lucky tonight. The discomfort was bringing her around.

  Gingerly, he lifted his hand away from the head wound and inspected the area. The edges held, at least for the moment, but she needed more healing before she was out of danger.

  She pushed his hand away and curled on her side. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m healing you, or at least I was.” He squatted by the edge of the bed so that he was in her line of sight.

  “My head is splitting.” She licked her lips. “And I’m thirsty.”

  “You have a concussion. I’ll get you a drink of water in a minute.” He looked her over. Then, even though it didn’t matter, he found himself asking, “What did he hit you with?”

  “I don’t know. He came at me from behind when I was taking out some trash.” Her good eye was cloudy and hazed. “I did everything you told me to do, but it never occurred to me to practice hitting something behind me. That’s why he was able to get so many strikes in.”

  “You did well.” He touched her shoulder with light fingers.

  Her gaze traveled away from his expression and she frowned. “This doesn’t look like my rental. Where are we?”

  “I brought you to a safe house outside the city limits.” He wanted to touch her again. The compulsion confounded him, so he didn’t. Instead, he pressed a fist against the cool bedspread. “We’re in the basement.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “Why are you in the safe house?” He was prepared to be patient. Sometimes concussion victims struggled with confusion.

  “No.” Her frown deepened, and she focused on him again. “Why are we in the basement?”

  She stared as if he were the one who struggled with confusion, and he bit back a smile. “Mostly because there isn’t any furniture in the house, but also there are protection spells down here. Can’t you feel them?”

  Sudden panic and grief cracked her ravaged face. She clamped a hand on his wrist. “I can’t feel anything. My Power was like a deep golden well at my core, but now it’s gone. What’s wrong?”

  Her panic jolted him. He had been so preoccupied with checking her over for physical damage, he hadn’t checked for magical injuries.

  “Calm down. I’ll check you over.”

  Swallowing hard, she curled tighter as he scanned her again. Her taut grip cut off the blood supply to his hand, but he didn’t dislodge her fingers.

  Almost immediately he understood what she had meant. Where he had once sensed her Power now felt raw and dark. Carefully he probed, but he didn’t sense any permanent damage.

  Once he was sure, he said, “You’re all right. You just overextended yourself and burned out your source.”

  “My source,” she repeated softly. Her death grip never eased.

  He put his free hand over hers. “Imagine if you tried to sing a two-hour-long opera without conditioning your vocal cords. You would experience throat strain, and you might even lose your voice for three or four days until you recovered. That’s what you did to your magic. It may take up to a week or so, but it will come back.”

  Midway through his explanation, she closed her eyes and sighed. Only then did her grip ease.

  Most victims of violence acted like victims. They were hurt and traumatized, at least until they recovered their emotional bearings again. But her emotional bearings hadn’t been rocked one iota until she thought she might have lost her magic.

  He had wondered how she would handle having magic ability. It appeared she had come to terms with it very well.

  The blood that had poured down half her face bothered him. He said abruptly, “Hold on a sec. I’ll be right back.”

  Straightening, he went into the utilitarian bathroom and checked his phone. No word yet from Anson. He kept a glass at the bathroom sink. He filled it with water, and then he dampened a clean washcloth and took both to her.

  With his assistance, she swallowed a few sips of water and wiped away the worst of the blood. When she eased back down on his pillow, she was paler than ever. Dropping the soiled cloth on the bare floor by the doorway, he sat on the edge of the bed beside her knees.

  “I’m worried about that head wound. I want to cast more healing spells on you, but fair warning—my healing skills aren’t fancy. They’re going to hurt, but they’re also the quickest way to shore up that concussion and strengthen your ribs. Are you game?”

  She closed her eyes again. “Do you have to?”

  For the first time she sounded as miserable as she looked, but he hardened his heart against it. He replied flatly, “It’s either that or I take you to the nearest hospital. I don’t have time to babysit someone with a concussion.”

  “Okay.” Her lips tightened. “Do it.”

  He rested one hand on her shoulder. In spite of his hard words, he hesitated, but he had spoken the truth. He didn’t have time to babysit someone with a concussion, and right now she couldn’t afford to answer any questions that health practitioners at an ER would ask.

  So he cast spell after spell, watching as each hammered into her body. At the first one, she flinched and hid her face in the crook of her arm. Then she didn’t move again or make a sound until he stopped.

  Was she breathing or holding her breath? He stroked bloody, tangled hair back from her forehead as he scanned her head. Quietly he murmured, “You need more healing, but we’ve hit your limit. Your body won’t absorb any more right now.”

  She shifted cautiously. “Thank you. Seriously, Josiah. Thank you for everything.”

  The gracious thing to do would be to accept her thanks, but he had never been a gracious man. He set his teeth. “You’re a fucking disaster.”

  One corner of her mouth notched up, astonishing him. “I thought I had promise. I thought if I hitched myself to your little red wagon, the sky would be our limit. What happened to us ruling the Eastern Seaboard together?”

  He coughed out an angry laugh. “That was before I discovered how high maintenance you are. You had balls, calling me after our last conversation. What makes you think you can hang up on a man and still call him for help? Why was my number the one you dialed?”

  “I didn’t have anybody else,” she whispered. “You were the only one I could call.”

  Silence fell inside him, deep like a snowfall, as he absorbed that. Then he thought of how crowded her house had been the night of Hell Party.

  “Bullshit,” he snapped. “You must have a list of friends as long as my arm.”

  “Maybe I have a list of people I could ask out to a martini lunch.” Her cloudy gaze had cleared, and she gave him a steady look. “But you were the only person I could call tonight. You’re the only one who understands what I’m going through. I didn’t even know if you would pick up, but then you did, and that was when I knew you would help me.”

  “I almost didn’t, and it would have served you right.” He glared at her, then stood to pace.

  “Maybe,” she admitted. “But I’m not going to apologize for losing my temper. In some ways you’ve helped me, but in others… Josiah, you’ve not treated me very well.”

  The room felt too small and confined. He stood in the open doorway and looked out at the rest of the unfinished basement while resting hands on his hips and tilting his head back and f
orth to ease the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders.

  She was right. He hadn’t treated her very well. Meeting Molly, and interacting with her, was like confronting himself in a fucking mirror after decades of avoiding his reflection.

  And he didn’t particularly like the man he saw. He had fallen into the habit of seeing people and things as potential tools he could use to achieve his objectives. The long years of focusing single-mindedly on his mission had changed him, and not for the better.

  “Guilty as charged,” he muttered. More quietly, he added, “I’ll do better.”

  “Well,” she said after a moment. “Helping me tonight has also gone a long way toward erasing the rest, and I won’t forget that.” The bedsprings creaked. “I’d kill for a hot shower.”

  Turning, he found her sitting up, sore arm cradled against her torso. “There’s a bathroom down here. Think you’re steady enough to keep from falling in the shower?”

  “Only one way to find out.” She pushed to her feet and her complexion whitened further, but she didn’t sway or stumble. Frustration twisted her features. “I can’t lift my arm over my head.”

  “Hold on.” Pulling out his pocketknife, he urged her to turn her back to him. When she complied, he cut the soft material of her T-shirt from neck to waist and sawed through the armhole of her bad arm. After stripping the ruined material off, he tossed it on top of the soiled washcloth. “Can you take off your pants on your own?”

  “I think so.” Her head bent as she unfastened her jeans.

  As she kicked out of them, he walked to the battered dresser and pulled out one of his old T-shirts. The cotton material had been washed so many times that the material felt butter-soft to his callused fingers. He was big enough that the bottom of the shirt should hit her thighs. He pulled out a pair of gray sweats and athletic socks.

  “I have some clothing essentials here, but none of it’s fancy.”

  “Trust me.” She gave him a dry look. “Fancy is overrated.”

  “You’re going to have to do without underwear until we wash what you’re wearing or get you something new.” When he turned back to her, the sight of her nearly nude body stopped him in his tracks. Still clad in a lacy gray bra and panties, she was as covered as any modem woman on a beach.

  But they weren’t on a beach. She stood in a private place where he often slept, and she was beautiful everywhere, with a racy-looking body, long, delicately muscled legs, and high breasts that he immediately wanted to cup in his hands.

  But if he’d thought her face had looked bad, the marks of damage on her body looked worse. He had targeted her concussion with most of the healing spells, but some of the magic had filtered down to other injuries. It was enough to advance the bruises and contusions to what would have been the second or third day of the healing process—right about at the point when they looked and felt the worst.

  “Brace yourself, babe,” he said bluntly. “There’s not much of a mirror in the bathroom down here, but you look like shit.”

  The edges of her full lips turned downward as she ran fingers over the blackened mottling over her narrow rib cage. Her voice was quiet. “It’s nothing that won’t heal.”

  “You were lucky.” He handed her the clothes. He still wanted to touch her, only this time the desire was almost overwhelming. “There’s soap and shampoo in the shower stall and towels in the cabinet. Call if you get dizzy or need help.”

  “Will do.” She gave him an unfathomable look before turning away.

  There were only three rooms in the big basement. They bordered a large open area that held a washer and dryer, the furnace, and the water heater. The bathroom was located right by the bedroom. She went around the corner and shut the door.

  He waited until he heard the shower going. Then he pulled out his phone to text Anson. Report.

  Anson responded swiftly. I’m surveilling the house. They’ve put out the blaze. Police and fire crew are monitoring while the car cools. There’s an ambulance and tow truck present. I haven’t heard talk over the police scanner about finding a body or transporting someone to the hospital. I think Sullivan disappeared before they got here.

  Either Sullivan hadn’t been as hurt as Molly had thought and had left on his own, or he’d had help.

  Josiah’s fingers moved rapidly over the screen as he replied. Nobody would bother transporting a dead body. Sullivan isn’t dead—or at least he wasn’t when he left the scene. Question is, did he have help?

  Agreed. Any further instructions?

  He tapped the corner of his phone against a front tooth as he thought. No point in hanging around and risking discovery. Keep monitoring police communications and let me know if you find out anything else.

  Will do. What about Molly Sullivan?

  I’m handling Molly, he responded.

  The silence between Anson’s texts stretched out. While Josiah waited, he listened to the shower running and imagined Molly’s slow, pain-filled movements as she worked to get clean.

  Then his screen lit up. Is she becoming a distraction?

  His internal reaction was immediate and profound, but this time he was the one who hesitated before he answered. I’m protecting our only witness should we decide to pursue a legal case through official channels.

  I didn’t consider that as an option, Anson sent back. That would be provocative, and risky for you.

  There may be value in drawing fire while the rest of the coven remains free to act. We need to keep all our options open. He lifted his head as the shower stopped. Gotta run. Touch base in the a.m.

  Roger that. Be careful, Josiah.

  You too.

  After that, his phone remained silent. While he waited for Molly, he flipped back over the exchange.

  I’m protecting our only witness, he had written. But that hadn’t been his first response to Anson’s question.

  And he had intentionally avoided telling Anson he had brought Molly to the safe house, because in all the decades his coven had worked together, never once had anyone brought an outsider to one of their safe houses. Doing so heightened the risk of discovery for everyone.

  The bathroom door opened, and she stood shivering and clinging to the knob. She had managed to wiggle into his T-shirt, but her long legs remained bare, and her wet hair hung in ropes down her back.

  He shoved his phone in his pocket and sprang forward to catch her by the elbows. As she swayed against him, the scent of his soap reached his nostrils.

  “Let’s sit you on the bed and I’ll get the hair dryer,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her into the other room.

  “You don’t have to do that. I don’t care if I go to bed with a wet head.” She sounded utterly spent.

  “I’ve done that before. It’s cold down here in the basement, and my hair is much shorter than yours. We can at least get you a little drier. Right now you’re dripping.”

  “Okay, if you don’t mind.”

  He tightened his arm. “I don’t mind.”

  Is Molly Sullivan becoming a distraction? Anson had asked.

  And his first, most honest response had been, hell yes. Yes, she was. It was unplanned, unwanted, but it was also more powerful than he knew how to resist.

  * * *

  Showering was rough.

  Josiah had warned her, so she’d been braced when she’d checked her appearance in the small mirror. And it wasn’t as bad as she had imagined.

  It was a lot worse. Half her head was soaked in blood. Her cheek was swelling, and it looked like it had been abraded with a cheese grater.

  She whispered to her image, “No jury in the world would have convicted you. You should have gotten whatever he had beaten you with and thrown it beside his body.”

  Then, possibly, it might have looked like she had used Austin’s own weapon to fight back, especially since nobody from her old life knew about her burgeoning Power. Except there was no good way to explain what had happened to his BMW.

  At
least now if anybody questioned her, she could claim she had no idea what had happened, as long as nobody laid eyes on her until she healed.

  She turned on the faucets. Pain flared again when she stepped under the warm flow of water. Injuries throbbed, and her torn skin stung like a bitch. But avoiding discomfort wasn’t an option, so she sucked it up and washed herself as best she could.

  By the time she’d finished, she was so exhausted she gladly leaned against Josiah as he helped her into the bedroom. Then she sat forward, elbows braced on knees with her head bent while he plugged in a hair dryer and turned it on her, running long fingers gently through the wet strands.

  He had to use his hand because he didn’t have a hairbrush, or at least she hadn’t found one in the bathroom. The repetitive motion was incredibly soothing. Soon her eyes closed. Against the blackness of her inner lids, she thought of what he had looked like when he had cast the healing spells.

  He had started speaking in the foreign-sounding language again. It sounded elegant in his dark, low voice, imbued with Power and tense with a meaning that escaped her. Was it Russian?

  No matter how she’d tried to concentrate, the words shot away like sparks flying out from the strike of a blacksmith’s hammer, and the spells took shape in the forge of his magic.

  She had never seen or heard anything so compelling in her life. Then the pain from the healing spells had driven everything else out.

  He ran his hand through her hair one last time before turning the hair dryer off. “That should do.”

  “Thank you.” She tested the hair at the back of her head. It was perfectly dry, and she felt warm all over.

  “You’re welcome.” He took the dryer away and returned with another glass of water and an ibuprofen bottle. Shaking out some pills, he offered them to her.

  Wordlessly she swallowed them down and drained the glass. When she had finished, she said, “He wanted me to give him all the copies I’d made of the Seychelles file. He was going to kill me. I don’t know how I could see it, but I could tell he had containers of gas in the trunk of his car along with some rope that I think he meant to use to tie me up.”