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“How does Dane know her thighs are bruised?” Adam asked, like a true Scooby Doo detective.
“Exactly. And Dane will say…?”
Adam and Anna turned to Dane. He held open his palms. “Why do I have to say anything?”
“Because everyone will want an explanation as to how you know what the witch’s thighs look like.” Cain sniffed. “You stink of multiple females, so who’s to say you didn’t touch her.”
“I didn’t!”
Cain arched a brow. “You washed her feet.”
“Well, I didn’t hurt her. I wouldn’t. They can look in my memories.”
“He has a point,” Adam agreed.
“Well, we have to say something,” Anna argued. “If someone is hurting that poor child, we have to help her.”
“She’s not a child,” Cain reminded. “She’s an adult witch—a homicidal one at that.”
None of this mattered. Dane didn’t want to waste any more time bullshitting with Velma, Freddy, and Shag. “I’m going to talk to Eleazar.”
“I’m going with you,” Anna insisted, rushing after him.
“Not without me,” Adam ordered, following closely behind.
Cain threw up his hands in frustration. “Well, I guess I’ll just wait here.” He grabbed Adam’s sandwich and took a bite then yelled, “She tried to kill our father!”
CHAPTER 3
Breath sucked through Delilah’s nose and tore into her lungs like an avalanche of life ripping through a silent mountain. For a moment, she swore she touched the heavens. There had been the most overwhelming calm and then a rush of light drawing her near. Then a soft cry she could only describe as angels singing, which abruptly transformed into the scream of infants, rushing traffic, a billion prayers, and her hyperventilating lungs seeking air where there was none. No gravity, no physical form, no reality to hold onto. Just space. Not even time. And then she was being ripped back through the blackness, fighting her way back into her physical form as if suffering some sort of backward birth.
Her chest stretched painfully on a vocal gasp and sweet, hydrating oxygen bathed her lungs. Air never tasted so good or burned so much.
Panting, she jackknifed upward and covered her face, dizzier than a time traveler. How much had she had to drink? She must’ve blacked out, yet her body felt fine. No lingering headache. No nausea. Just the burning in her lungs and a hollow ache in her stomach, which probably explained why her equilibrium felt off. She dry heaved, closing her eyes and searching for balance.
Slowly, the burn in her chest eased and the world stopped spinning. She wiggled her shoulders, taking inventory of her usual aches and pains. The pinched nerve in her back didn’t stab like a shiv in a prison fight for once.
“You are awake.”
Stranger danger. Her eyes flashed open and she stilled. Where the fuck was she, and who the hell—
She gasped. Her memories came hurtling back and she sprang to her feet, her legs unsteady on the mattress as she scrambled as far away from that sick fuck as she could manage.
“Am I fucking dead?” she screamed.
“There’s no need for salty language—”
“What the fucking fuck!” Having the stability of a kid on a moon bounce, she wobbled and gripped the headboard. Her free hand inspected her body, frantically feeling her neck and shoulders for injury, certain he’d stabbed her. “Where am I?”
Was this a kidnapping? Her gaze zipped around the bare room. Absolutely no memory of coming here voluntarily. She touched her face, arms, hips, stomach, thighs, vagina, toes. Where the hell were her clothes?
He took a step closer.
“Stay back!” she snapped, holding out an unsteady arm, unsure how she could possibly protect herself against a man that size. “Where are my fucking clothes?”
He scowled at her. “No more foul language, Delilah.”
“Go fuck yourself!” She drew in another burning breath and screamed, “Help!”
Shaking his head, he crossed to a dresser in the corner, moving with such agility and grace, it was as if he walked on air.
Her eyes twitched. In the corner, a tiny spider slept on a web. Her focus zeroed in and she counted all eight of its legs then frowned. What the fuck? The thing was smaller than a pencil tip, but she had no problem seeing every detail of its miniature body from ten feet away.
A motored vehicle passed in the distance and her ear followed the sound, her gaze darting to the window. Her mind tracked the distant rumble, certain the car was miles away, yet she heard the engine, scented the exhaust, and even detected the music playing from the speakers.
Was that T-Swift?
She frowned at the faint trail of cigarette smoke.
He opened a drawer, the rattle of wood louder than a wrecking ball. Gripping her ears, she hunched down and flinched. Maybe she was hungover—or drugged. That made more sense.
“You’re experiencing heightened sensory. You’ll adapt in a minute or two. Just relax.”
The last time he told her to relax, he slit her throat open. “What did you do to me?”
