“It was wrong of me, Rissy. I see that now. But I thought that if I could convince myself I hadn’t been such a horrible person and pathetic excuse for a father, I wouldn’t die hating myself.”
His words tightened the knot in her stomach, and she dropped her head to his chest, her tears soaking his terry robe. A moment later, she felt his fingers in her hair, combing through the strands. “I used to do this for you.” His voice shook with wonder, as if suddenly remembering.
“Yeah, you did.”
“I’ve missed it. I’ve missed a lot of things.”
She lifted her head and gave him a tremulous smile. “Me too.” Hugging him to her again, she rocked them gently. Soon enough, he dozed off, apparently exhausted from the emotional revelations heaped on him after all these years. Kissing his wrinkled forehead, she straightened and headed toward the door, knowing that if she stopped to look back, she’d break down again.
From this moment on, there would be no more looking back.
She returned to her car. This time she didn’t need to rely on the GPS. Funny how the knowledge that your life was crumbling before your eyes made everything so much more crystal clear—even the damn directions lurking in her mind. Exiting the parking lot, she drove toward Seventy-seven West Seventh Street.
And her inevitable future.
Logan figured he hadn’t spent much more than an hour banging on the damn spell box, but his raw throat from his endless shouts and curses made it feel like it’d been an eternity. In the end though, it was Izzy that inadvertently rescued his sorry hide. The puppy’s incessant scratching and whimpering at the office door must have finally attracted some attention, because the dog suddenly stopped its fussing and scooted back as the door swung open. Ms. Peach waddled inside and stooped, reaching for Izzy.
“Would you help me out of this fuckin’ thing?”
Ms. Peach yelped, jerking her hand back. She stared at Izzy. “Holy shit. You can talk.” Her eyebrows knitted together. “But why do you sound just like Logan?”
“Because it is me, damn it. Over here. By the desk.”
Her focus swerved to him and her eyes widened. “Sweet ghost of Elvis. Did an ET put you in there?”
“No. Clarissa.”
She looked sort of disappointed with his answer. Scratching her chin, she approached the box. “Hm, I don’t think I’ve got enough spell-breaker juice in me for this job. Why’d she shut you in there anyway?” An interested sparkle lit her eyes. “Is this some kind of kinky sex game between you two?”
Apparently Constance had let the cat out of the bag. “No. I suspect it was ’cause she didn’t want me runnin’ after her,” he said dryly.
“Oh. Told you she was leavin’, did she?”
“Yeah. But you can count on one thing. Soon as I’m outta this damn thing, I’m trackin’ her down and cartin’ her stubborn ass back here.”
Ms. Peach gave a decisive nod. “Sounds like a good plan to me. You wait here while I go gather the troops.” She blinked. “Guess it’s not like you can exactly go anywhere.”
“The troops,” he reminded to get her mind back on track.
“Oh right.” Her head bobbed again, and she scurried from the room. A few minutes later, she returned with Fiona and Constance. After running through his spiel again about what’d led to his current predicament, the three witches set about dismantling the box.
“Damn, is Clarissa’s magic made of Teflon or something?” Fiona wiped the sweat from her brow. “I’ve never seen wards this tough to break through.”
Constance plopped her hands on her hips and gave the box another inspection. “Maybe rather than us working on separate sections, we should concentrate on just cracking one of the side walls.” She glanced at Logan and gnawed her bottom lip. “You’re not wearing a protective cup by any chance, are you?”
He stared at her. “No.”
“Guess we’ll just have to be extra careful with our aim.”
“Uh…”
Constance’s lips twitched into a grin. “Relax. I’m only messing with you. Your groin is perfectly safe. Mostly.”
With that disturbing disclaimer hanging in the air, the trio of witches combined all their whammy power, sending a barrage of green, red and orange thunderbolts pummeling into the shield. The side wall facing them shimmered, putting up a tenacious resistance, just like its pig-headed creator. Finally a visible hairline crack snaked across its surface, rapidly radiating outward like a concentric series of spider webs. Fiona, Constance and Ms. Peach ceased their firepower as the wall dematerialized with an angry crackle. Freed from his invisible prison, he barreled from the office.
Clarissa might have severed their familiar connection, but she hadn’t counted on the other thing that still tied her to him. His wolf. If there was one thing a lupine was proficient at, it was tracking its mate, even across thousands of miles.
He sprinted upstairs, ripping off his clothes along the way. Thoroughly stripped by the time he reached her room, he transformed into his wolf form and leapt onto her bed, his claws sinking into the comforter. He buried his muzzle into the bedding. Her scent swirled in his nostrils, heady and intoxicating. A zip-line of energy arced down his spine and he raised his head, a triumphant howl trumpeting from his chest.
With her scent still heavy in his nose, he jumped from the mattress and bound from the room. The stairway a blur, he ran for the front door. Luckily someone had the foresight to leave it open. Unluckily, they hadn’t done the same for the screen. He tore through it, shaking himself from the mesh, and galloped down the drive, his muzzle leading the way.
He took the less traveled route, bounding through abandoned cotton fields and the occasional swamp. The going was rougher than if he’d taken the open road, but less perilous for a wolf in broad daylight, particularly since there were plenty of hunters in the area who’d salivate at the idea of stuffing him for their trophy collection. He came to yet another tract of unused farmland and stopped, snuffing the air that whistled through the clumps of snakeweed.
She was close.
Victory singing through his veins, he raced onward, leaping over the rusted carcass of a long-forgotten tiller partially imbedded in the baked earth. A few minutes and several acres later, he wiggled between the spires of a wrought-iron fence. Once on the other side, he trotted forward, cautiously eyeing the exterior of the imposing Greek Revival mansion that stood before him. His hackles lifted, instantly putting him on high alert. He didn’t like the vibe of this place.
What the hell was Clarissa doing here?
His senses tuned for any possible threat, he snuck around the side of the mansion. A noise rustled and he instinctively froze, the tufts of his ears cocking flat in warning of danger. A field mouse suddenly jumped from a crevice between a cluster of rocks and scampered out of his path. He released his rigid stance, his ears popping back to normal. Under different circumstances, he would have been mightily ashamed letting a pipsqueak mouse get the better of him. Chuffing through his nose, he crept closer to the front of the building. He spotted Clarissa’s Miata, its presence verifying what he already knew. She was here. And likely somewhere in that house.
He stared at the empty, wide expanse of the porch. It was even bigger than the one at the coven house, but it didn’t hold a lick of furniture or any other sign that the mansion’s occupants ever used it. The big red door was like a beacon calling him. There was no way around it. The only way he’d get to Clarissa was through that door.
And from the looks of it, he’d be doing it nekkid, since he doubted whoever greeted him would be willing to let a wolf stroll into their house. Course, they might feel a little funny about inviting in a naked man, too, but he’d have to take his chances. Transforming from his canine shape, he hoofed it up the steps and rapped on the door. In less time than he’d been expecting it swung open and a silver-haired dude in a butler’s uniform peered out at him.