Family? She wasn’t one of Nettie’s zombie pets.
As if they’d been waiting for their cue, a pair of corpses shambled into the garden, their glassy eyes pinned on Nettie.
A low laugh that resembled the rattle of bones shook from Antoinette. “The coven has kept you in the dark, I see.” Her crimson lips pulling into a chilling smile, she caressed Jemma’s cheek. “I told you they are not to be trusted, my dearest granddaughter.”
She peered into the twisted, fathomless depths of Nettie’s eyes, the ugly truth unfurling within her consciousness like the withered petals of a rose. The deadly prick of its poisoned thorn finally broke the spell of her paralysis, and she screamed in denial.
Chapter Ten
Griffin was in the middle of throwing a chair at Logan when Jemma’s mournful scream exploded in his head. He let the chair thunk to the ground and barreled from the library. His feet barely touching the stair treads, he thundered onto the second floor. He registered Clarissa and Logan’s pounding footsteps behind him but quickly tuned them out as he concentrated on reaching Jemma.
He crashed into her room, his heart somersaulting when he noticed her empty bed. “Where?” He scrabbled to reconnect the psychic link with Jemma but kept slamming into what surmounted to a brick wall. “Something’s blocking her.”
“Nettie.” Clarissa streaked back into the hallway. Griffin overtook her on the stairs and beat her through the front door. He sniffed the air. His human senses were a pale substitute for those he possessed in his alter-ego form, but unlike Logan, he couldn’t transform without his witch’s agreement. Given his lack of control over his shifting, Clarissa’s spoken permission was a necessary—if not pain-in-the-ass—safeguard. Clarissa stumbled out onto the porch. Knowing he had precious seconds to locate Jemma, he rucked his jeans over his hips. “Say it.”
“Logan can—”
“Fucking say it.” Baring his teeth, he kicked his pants aside.
Irritation pinched the corners of Clarissa’s mouth but she nodded. “Familia tacchi.”
The shift started in his bones and sinew. Dropping onto his haunches, he elongated his spine and flattened his palms against the porch’s pine floorboards. Tufts of orange fur sprouted from his skin, and his hands and feet retracted into paws. His vision sharpened, the velvet darkness no longer an obstacle. Transformation complete, he released a primal roar and leapt down the steps. Claws digging into the parched turf, he ate up the ground in long, bounding strides, the thrill of the hunt a liquid fire in his lungs. Death’s stench rode the wind and burned the insides of his nostrils.
He galloped over the river-rock tiles leading to the enclosed celestial garden. His acute hearing picked up the muffled sounds of a struggle, and he hurtled across the final fifty yards. Primed for attack, he vaulted through the archway. Two zombies had a naked Jemma cornered on one of the stone benches. She was trying to fend them off by lobbing various voodoo artifacts at their heads. Though her aim was on the money—a shard of glass protruded from the bald corpse’s noggin—the zombies weren’t deterred by her improvised firepower. Bloody Nettie watched the scene from the opposite corner, cackling in demented delight.
He snarled another ear-splitting roar and catapulted over the bronze sundial blocking his path. Gardenias and night-blooming jasmine fell victim to his ferocious sprint. He sprang at the bald zombie, his jaws sinking into the corpse’s hindquarters. The dead man’s outraged squeal bounced off the fieldstone. A second later its body accepted the same fate when Griffin sent the zombie flying on a collision course with the adjacent wall. The remaining corpse dove on top of Griffin. While he twisted and bucked, struggling to get the creature off his back, Clarissa and Logan raced into view.
Clarissa hurled one of Rose’s antique salt shakers at the ground beneath Nettie. The crystal container shattered, sending salt spraying into the air. Nettie screeched in raging fury before her astral body disintegrated. Not for good, unfortunately, but the salt bought them some time. At least as far as vengeful ghost voodoo queens went. The zombie riding him like a goddamn bronco was another matter. Kicking and snarling, he tried to throw the creature off, but it dug its bony fingers into his thick ruff and tweaked his tail.
Oh yeah, they always went for the goddamn tail. Motherfucker.
From the corner of his eye he spotted Clarissa jogging toward him, the base of the heavy sundial clenched in both her hands. She took swing. A crunch sounded and the zombie thunked to the ground, its face at an opposing angle to its front end. Freed of the dead man’s burdensome weight, Griffin swung in Jemma’s direction. She shrieked and flattened herself against the wall. He was baffled by her reaction—until he remembered he was still in form. His alter ego had a tendency to make even the most badass of men piss their pants, much less a tiny wisp of woman like Jemma. Growling at his own stupidity, he shifted into his human body. Thankfully he didn’t need Clarissa’s verbal permission for that part of the transformation.
Her fingers slowly loosening their white-knuckled grip on the fieldstone, Jemma gaped at him. “Griff?”
“Baby, are you okay?” He reached for her but she slapped his hand. Hard. Wincing, he rubbed at the sting. “What the hell was that for?”
“For not telling me you’re a freakin’ Bengal tiger.”
He frowned. “I told you I was a cat.”
“Exactly. A cat.” She tossed up her arms. “The word implies something cuddly and domestic, not an animal that snacks on antelopes.”
He dug into the aching muscles of his neck. “I was planning to ease you into the tiger part. I figured discovering I’m a cat would be plenty enough to digest.”
Jemma’s scowl vanished. “Okay, you might have a point.” She lowered her right foot from the bench, and Griffin rushed to help her down. Her stare traveled from his groin to hers before shooting toward Clarissa and Logan. Yelping, she scrabbled to cover her exposed parts. Griffin hurried to block her from the others’ view, but Clarissa beat him to the punch by conjuring a pair of robes for him and Jemma.
“Thanks.” Blushing furiously, Jemma jammed her arms into the kimono-like sleeves and cinched the sash tight. “It must be handy being able to snap your fingers and have stuff magically appear.”
“My conjuring abilities are limited to certain materials, but yes, it’s definitely one of the perks to being a witch.”
Griffin shrugged into his own robe before hugging Jemma to his chest. A fierce tremble ran through him. He’d come so close to losing her. Again. “Jem, you just took at least a year off my life. How the hell did you end up out here anyway?”
“You’ve got eight more lives, right? So cut me some slack.” Sniffling, she wiped her cheek on the lapel of his robe. “And I honestly don’t know what happened. One minute I was asleep in bed and the next thing I knew some weird lights led me here.”
“Nettie entranced you.” Clarissa disregarded the irate look he sent her and calmly strode away. She returned a few seconds later with the shovel they’d used to dig the graves in the rose garden and went to work on the corpses.
“That’s why you needed the fucking voodoo book.” Shoving away from Jemma, he stalked toward Clarissa. A warning growl issued from Logan, but Griffin wouldn’t be deterred from his outrage. “Goddamn it, you knew this would happen, didn’t you?”
Clarissa’s posture became more rigid than the fieldstone wall behind her. “For goddess’s sake, I’m not psychic. I didn’t know anything. The book was merely a precaution.”