between her and the circle a man. Evil emanated from him in waves, totally contradicting his beautiful appearance. The need to vomit damn near brought her to her knees, and her box of Captain Crunch ended up on the floor, the first casualty of the evening.
Over six-and-a-half feet of ripped blond maleness rushing toward her might not have sent her into a panic, but the blood-curdling growl and the long steel blade aimed directly at her certainly did. Tory spun to the right, using the only weapons at her disposal, the half-gallon of milk and ceramic bowl to beat the intruder back. Hardly effective, neither did enough damage to help her get away. The milk bounced off his chest and he used his sword to bat the bowl away, sending it careening into the wall.
The only chance Tory saw of escaping the demon was the stairs, but she hated the thought of turning her back on him. As if she really had any chance of getting away. It was so unfair—just when she finally had something to live for.
She’d barely moved in that direction when she felt the first sting of his blade piercing her back. With a startled cry, Tory lunged forward, fire burning through her veins. She stumbled, her knees buckling, and she crashed to the floor, a sob ripping from her chest as the blade pierced her again, deeper this time. Gasping for breath, she tried to crawl away, but the floor under her was too slick and she collapsed in a heap on the wood.
“Die, bitch. Die,” the inhuman voice snarled and Tory was pretty certain the bastard was going to get his wish. Death’s icy grip was descending over her, and within its cold embrace the pain and fear began to slide away. As peace replaced horror, she finally embraced the darkness.
Chapter Eight
It turned out the witch lived in one of those chic condos in downtown Chicago overlooking Lake Michigan. Unlike Tory’s home, where her nearest neighbor was miles from her, Evie Stanton’s was only a wall away, and Michael couldn’t fathom how no one had heard her screams.
As he approached the woman her eyes grew larger with each step. By the time he’d come to a halt right in front of her they were the size of saucers. At one time this would have pleased Michael greatly. He would have viewed it as a sign of respect. But that would have been LBT or Life Before Tory. Now it just annoyed the shit out of him.
“What did the demon want from you?” he demanded. His voice was a little harsh and Evie flinched. Michael knew he was frightening her, and he probably should have felt bad. But damn it, Evie Stanton was hardly on death’s door. Hell, she’d only been kicked around a little bit. Michael figured there was a reason for that. Asmodeus had gotten what he’d come looking for.
“Michael, Ms. Stanton has been through a difficult time.” Skath, the angel whose soul purpose was to govern the spell casters, approached. His tone was a gentle reprimand, and Michael watched Evie’s gaze swivel to Skath, her look changing from one of a frightened rabbit to blatant hero worship.
He growled. “I am aware Ms. Stanton has been through a difficult couple of hours, but even as we speak there is a demon hunting witches, and I’ll be damned if I let him succeed in killing his target.”
His snarl must have been more brutal than intended because it drew a whimper from Evie, and the woman leaned closer to Skath, who patted her back softly. “Just tell Michael what you can, dear, so he can be on his way. You want him to make the demon pay for his treatment of you, don’t you, Evie?”
Evie nodded, tears welling in her eyes before slowly spilling over her lashes. “He had this little brown teddy bear and demanded I scry for the owner, a little girl, he claimed. But I kept seeing a woman, blonde hair, about five-three, and that angered him.”
Michael tried to tell himself it could have been anyone Evie Stanton had seen. Five-three blonde-haired women were not uncommon, especially not with the invention of
Over six-and-a-half feet of ripped blond maleness rushing toward her might not have sent her into a panic, but the blood-curdling growl and the long steel blade aimed directly at her certainly did. Tory spun to the right, using the only weapons at her disposal, the half-gallon of milk and ceramic bowl to beat the intruder back. Hardly effective, neither did enough damage to help her get away. The milk bounced off his chest and he used his sword to bat the bowl away, sending it careening into the wall.
The only chance Tory saw of escaping the demon was the stairs, but she hated the thought of turning her back on him. As if she really had any chance of getting away. It was so unfair—just when she finally had something to live for.
She’d barely moved in that direction when she felt the first sting of his blade piercing her back. With a startled cry, Tory lunged forward, fire burning through her veins. She stumbled, her knees buckling, and she crashed to the floor, a sob ripping from her chest as the blade pierced her again, deeper this time. Gasping for breath, she tried to crawl away, but the floor under her was too slick and she collapsed in a heap on the wood.
“Die, bitch. Die,” the inhuman voice snarled and Tory was pretty certain the bastard was going to get his wish. Death’s icy grip was descending over her, and within its cold embrace the pain and fear began to slide away. As peace replaced horror, she finally embraced the darkness.
Chapter Eight
It turned out the witch lived in one of those chic condos in downtown Chicago overlooking Lake Michigan. Unlike Tory’s home, where her nearest neighbor was miles from her, Evie Stanton’s was only a wall away, and Michael couldn’t fathom how no one had heard her screams.
As he approached the woman her eyes grew larger with each step. By the time he’d come to a halt right in front of her they were the size of saucers. At one time this would have pleased Michael greatly. He would have viewed it as a sign of respect. But that would have been LBT or Life Before Tory. Now it just annoyed the shit out of him.
“What did the demon want from you?” he demanded. His voice was a little harsh and Evie flinched. Michael knew he was frightening her, and he probably should have felt bad. But damn it, Evie Stanton was hardly on death’s door. Hell, she’d only been kicked around a little bit. Michael figured there was a reason for that. Asmodeus had gotten what he’d come looking for.
“Michael, Ms. Stanton has been through a difficult time.” Skath, the angel whose soul purpose was to govern the spell casters, approached. His tone was a gentle reprimand, and Michael watched Evie’s gaze swivel to Skath, her look changing from one of a frightened rabbit to blatant hero worship.
He growled. “I am aware Ms. Stanton has been through a difficult couple of hours, but even as we speak there is a demon hunting witches, and I’ll be damned if I let him succeed in killing his target.”
His snarl must have been more brutal than intended because it drew a whimper from Evie, and the woman leaned closer to Skath, who patted her back softly. “Just tell Michael what you can, dear, so he can be on his way. You want him to make the demon pay for his treatment of you, don’t you, Evie?”
Evie nodded, tears welling in her eyes before slowly spilling over her lashes. “He had this little brown teddy bear and demanded I scry for the owner, a little girl, he claimed. But I kept seeing a woman, blonde hair, about five-three, and that angered him.”
Michael tried to tell himself it could have been anyone Evie Stanton had seen. Five-three blonde-haired women were not uncommon, especially not with the invention of
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