This was bad.
Jean-Baptiste’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled back sharply. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Look around. Maybe you’ll find something you like.”
Too late.
“Or maybe you’ll find some happiness. Isi puts that in the gray bottles, I believe.”
What the hell was she doing? Genevieve thought shakily as she watched him walk away and disappear behind that blue curtain. Why was the top button on her blouse digging into her throat, irritating her, begging to be bitten off, when it had always lain so comfortably against her skin?
And why had her mission of making sure the voodoun never entered the Wildlands suddenly expanded into the disjointed goal of never allowing the dark-haired woman to put her hands on Jean-Baptiste again?
She turned to a table of potions, released a heavy breath, and started picking up random bottles. Forget happiness. There had to be something here that returned sanity to a clearly insane mind, and calm to a body that had never experienced the true meanings of the words lust and possession until just a few moments ago.
Chapter 3
“Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Jean-Baptiste eyed the petite woman with the foul mouth, quick wit and fiercely sharp brain. “You know I have.”
Isi smacked the seat of the leather recliner in front of her and huffed, “Then get your ass under Derek’s needle again because there’s no way in hell I’m stepping foot back in the Wildlands.”
“Derek,” he uttered blackly. “That idiot’s cat food.”
“What?”
“When I see him again, he’s dead.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she muttered, pulling on a pair of gloves. “What happened?”
“The guy you hired to perform magic-laced tats can’t keep his mouth shut. He told one of our spies, who informed the leader of the Suits just what goes in my ink and metal.”
Isi sighed, picked up some tools and dropped them in the autoclave bag. “I’m sorry. Seriously. I’m sorry. But if that’s what you’re looking for from me—a Wildlands house call—I can’t do it.” She gave him a pointed look. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time?”
Damn right, he remembered. It was a week after he’d realized he had a problem, that his cat wasn’t behaving. He’d popped a few capsules of the malachite drug he gave his patients, testing to see if it grounded the feline inside his body once again.
It had.
But not for long.
He’d known right then he needed something permanent. Knew that if he didn’t want to be caged liked the very ones he treated, he’d have to hide it. He’d heard about Isi, her incredible magical abilities, and tried to get to her. But even though Pantera couldn’t shift outside the borders, his cat had. Twice. And had nearly taken down a couple of tourists in the process. In the end, he’d slunk back to the Wildlands and begged Isi to come to him.
The attempt hadn’t turned out well. For either of them.
“You got sick,” he said, trying to play down the truth as he watched her shove the autoclave bag inside the machine.
She snapped the latch, then turned to glare at him. “What I got was the equivalent of seasickness on land, times ten. I could barely stand, keep anything down.” She shuddered in remembrance. “I don’t care what the reason is or how dire it is, I’m not going.”
Jean-Baptiste sighed, crossed his arms over his chest. “How much?”
“What?”
“How much? We’ll pay. Even in stones, minerals…whatever you want. I know you’ve been dying to get your hands on all that ancient shit below the surface of the Wildlands’ soil.”
Baptiste saw a flicker of excitement light her eyes, then a shroud of fear quickly overtake it.
“No.”
“Isi. That could’ve been a one-time thing.”
She pointed to the curtain. “You have to go. I have a client coming.”
For one brief second, Jean-Baptiste thought about putting up a fight, scaring the shit out of the human who was coming to see her, offering her more than just cash or crystals. But he knew her. Knew what worked and what didn’t. Fear played her hard and often, and if he was going to get what he wanted, negotiation wasn’t the way.
Unfortunately, the way was probably going to get him despised, hunted and, more importantly, cut off from the ink and metal his body and his feral cat desperately needed.
Anger simmered below the surface of Genevieve’s skin as she watched the two males greet each other in the lobby of the swank Hotel Fils de France. At first, when Jean-Baptiste had walked out of the voodoun’s shop and headed for his car, Genevieve had assumed she’d just become the luckiest female in the world. Isi had said no to the trip, and the inked Nurturer hadn’t put up a fight. She’d be home by midnight, she’d thought smugly, and standing before the elders at dawn.
Her cat had practically purred along with the engine of his Jag.
Then he’d made a call, and two minutes later they’d pulled into the valet line of a beautiful French Quarter hotel. Before she’d even gotten a word out, a question, a demand to know just what the hell was going on, another male had pulled up beside them in an equally gorgeous car and they’d all walked inside together.
“I appreciate this, Michel,” Jean-Baptiste said in a low, almost conspiratorial voice as they entered the sumptuous, violet-hued lobby.
“Anytime, mon ami.” The suit-and-tie male was extraordinarily handsome, with a skull-shaved head, shockingly broad shoulders, and piercing green eyes that seemed to move over every inch of the hotel and its patrons. “How are things at home? How is the human female recovering?”
Baptiste’s voice dropped to a growl. “You’ve heard.”
Michel nodded. “We’re working on it from our end.”
“Any leads?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified,” he said, his gaze coming to rest on Genevieve. Though his eyes remained watchful, his mouth relaxed into a very charming, confident smile. “I recognize a fellow Suit when I scent one. And you, ma chérie, smell like magnolia flowers and twilight on the bayou.”
Genevieve felt a sudden shock of heat hit her cheeks, and she wanted to kick herself. She wasn’t appreciating this new and embarrassing side of her nature. For goodness’ sake, handsome males were a dime a dozen. So were compliments.
He reached out. “Michel.”
She shook his hand. It was warm, strong, and, knowing his profession outside of the Wildlands, probably able to kill her with just the tiniest of efforts. “No last name?” she asked him.
“Oh, now you’re into last names?” Jean-Baptiste muttered.
Genevieve ignored him.
Michel drew closer. “I find I don’t need one.”
“How convenient.”
His grin broadened. “And your name, chérie?”
“Genevieve,” Jean-Baptiste supplied with more than a trace of annoyance.
Green eyes raked over her. “Beautiful name for a beautiful female.”
A low, fierce growl echoed throughout the bustling lobby, and both Michel and Genevieve turned to look at Jean-Baptiste. The male looked ready to rip Michel’s head from his body. His eyes were narrowed into slits, his nostrils flared, and if she wasn’t mistaken, his canines were a hair longer than they should be outside of the Wildlands.