He brushed his finger over a particularly lovely pink blossom only to still when he saw the door of Mystique open. Continuing with his apparent admiration of the flower, he watched the individual who left the club.
Tall, thin, red hair framing a determined face. The corner of his mouth curved upwards. There was his quarry. Gwyneth O’Donohue. The game was about to begin.
Chapter 4
Gwyneth dropped her keys in her purse and then slung the bag’s strap over her shoulder. She had a few hours to spare before the club opened and she planned on taking a walk, perhaps even stopping by a boutique and buying herself something to perk up her spirits. Her confession to Matt—that she was missing Tina—had been weighing on her mind. Missing someone implied that you had a fondness for them and the Gwyneth O’Donohue the world knew had a fondness for no one except herself. That was how it had been for most of her life and that was how it would continue.
Maybe it was simply coincidence. Tina’s departure had coincided with a change in the weather. Sunshine and warmer temperatures had finally arrived. It brought out the young lovers walking hand in hand, smiling children, singing birds and blossoming flowers. A sneeze tickled her nose for not the first time that day and she frowned. Allergies. Spring brought pollen and pollen did not agree with her. When she returned home, she’d mix up a remedy.
She walked along briskly, her head high, her stride confident. The few pedestrians she met stepped aside for her, somehow sensing her power and bowing to it. When she finally paused, it was at a corner where she had to wait for the traffic light to change colour. Her fingers twitched but she resisted the urge to use a little magic to hurry along the electronic signal. There was no point in wasting magical energy over such trivial matters. Besides, if she changed one traffic light it could have implications down the entire length of the street and who knew what complications that could unknowingly lead to.
Years ago, impulsivity had been her greatest failing. Thankfully, she’d overcome that folly…for the most part. She pinned a placid expression on her face and waited, forcing her jaw to stay relaxed. Patience was a virtue, even if it did suck at times.
A nearby shop window caught her attention as she waited and she stepped closer to admire the vintage jewellery displayed within. The light reflecting off a black opal pendant necklace drew her gaze and on impulse she entered the building.
Vintage dresses and handbags, antique tables and old bric-a-brac were scattered about and she spared some time to look at them before stopping at the jewellery case. The sunlight played over the polished surface of the opal revealing the deep blues and reds that lived inside the black gem.
“Lovely.” A male voice spoke beside her.
“Yes, it is.” She replied, not bothering to look at the speaker. Her focus was on the necklace. It would be costly but she deserved a treat.
“Art Nouveau, if I were to hazard a guess. I like the matching ring as well. The millegraining around the collet sets off the stone. The rolling red flash makes it highly desirable.”
Gwyn glanced at the piece he was referring to and then looked at the speaker, quickly taking in his most noticeable features. Tall, well-dressed, dark hair and broad shoulders. “You sound knowledgeable about the topic of jewellery.”
A hint of a smile curved his lips as he turned his head to look at her. “I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of all beautiful things.” His gaze drifted over her and his smile widened.
She rolled her eyes and turned her back on the man. Raising her hand, she tried to get the attention of the shopkeeper. He was on the phone and acknowledged her with a nod.
“You’re not buying that for yourself, are you?” The man beside her continued talking as if she hadn’t dismissed him. “It’s considered bad luck.”
“So is sticking your nose into someone else’s business.” She gave him a pointed stare.
He grinned. “I see you have fire in your depths, just like the opal.”
“Go away.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like casual pickups.”
He raised his brow. “Now why would you think this is a casual pickup? I came to admire a gem.”
Gwyn felt an unfamiliar warmth on her cheeks and forced it back. He was trying to goad her for some perverse reason and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “My mistake.”
She turned to leave and he caught her arm. “You’re leaving?”
“How observant.”
“What about the opal?”
“I’ll come back another day when the store isn’t as crowded.” Given that they were the only customers in the store, he’d have to be incredibly dense not to get her meaning. She tugged at her arm and he let go with a soft, husky laugh.
There was something familiar about him and she frowned, searching her memory. “Do I know you?”
“Personally? No.”
“You’ve been to the club.” She made it a statement even though she wasn’t certain.
He nodded. “Mystique is a fine establishment.”
She didn’t acknowledge the compliment, studying him critically instead. There was a certain air about him. “You’re a Lycan.”
“Guilty as charged.”
She didn’t bother to hide her sneer. “I should have known.”
“And why is that?”
“Dogs are always causing trouble.”
“Trouble?” He cocked his head to the side. “I thought I was merely being friendly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you want?”
“Now why would you think I want something?”
“Because you struck up a conversation with me.”
“And you believe everyone who talks to you wants something?” A look of concern appeared on his face. “Tell me, have you had these feelings of paranoia long?”
“Paranoia?” Gwyneth clamped her mouth tightly shut and brushed past him. The conversation was pointless and irritating, just like the man who had started it. Shopping had lost its appeal. She’d stick to her brisk walk instead.
As the door to the store closed behind her, she was sure she could hear his soft laughter. Damned dog!
Dante leaned against the glass case that housed the jewels and watched the witch stride down the street. Her back was ramrod straight and irritation radiated from her. He’d enjoyed their verbal sparring even though it hadn’t gone as he’d expected. Charming her had been his first plan. Get under her guard, eventually insinuate himself into her life and then use her fondness for him to learn what he needed. That was his preferred modus operandi but by no means his only.
“The lady could not wait?” The shop keeper appeared at his elbow.
“Er…no. She had another commitment.” Dante turned towards the man.
“Then, may I help you, sir?”
He glanced at the case and then nodded. “Yes, I’d like the black opal pendant necklace.” Why he was purchasing it, he wasn’t sure, but he’d learned to go with his gut. An image flashed in his mind. The jewel hanging around Gwyneth’s neck, the dark gem nestled against her pale bosom, flashing with fire as it rose and fell with every breath she took.
Not conventionally beautiful, there was something about her that intrigued him. It went beyond the background information he’d already gathered on her – such as it was.
Sparse barely began to describe the data that existed on the woman. Date and place of birth, some school records and bank statements. She’d become the owner of the club ten years ago, and it turned a decent profit. She paid her taxes, drove a modest car and donated to several charities. There was nothing remarkable in her history and it bothered him. It was too bland, too organized. It didn’t fit the fire he sensed in her. Gwyneth O’Donohue was the type to have at least one youthful folly in her background; a parking ticket, a discarded lover. But there was nothing, not even a skipped class or overdue library book. He wanted to dig deeper. She had to be hiding something.
She’s not what she seems, his wolf muttere
d.
Dante gave a small nod of agreement. His wolf was suspicious by nature, a perfect match for his human cohort.
“I agree. We can’t rule her out of being involved with the malefic witch,” he murmured as the store clerk packaged the jewel.
More surveillance is needed, his inner animal decided.
“Unfortunately, Lycan Link is impatient and doesn’t see the value of thorough investigation.”
It was yet another reason to quit. He had a fondness for his own skin and the manner in which they wanted him to proceed wasn’t as safe as he’d like. Being killed was always a possibility in his line of work, but he didn’t like being pushed into skipping basic precautions. Gwyneth projected a calm, confident exterior, yet he’d caught a glimpse of temper. And she was a witch. Pissing her off was not advisable. Being turned into a frog wasn’t on his bucket list.
He paid for the jewellery and pocketed it. It might be useful in winning her over, plus the cost would go on his expense account. Or he’d keep it. Gems were a solid investment and could be used as currency in certain circles. With a nod of thanks to the proprietor, he left the shop and strolled down the street in the direction he’d seen the witch go.
Visual contact wasn’t needed to follow her progress. Being a Lycan, he could track her scent. It was a useful skill, staying out of sight while remaining cognizant of your quarry’s locale. Unfortunately, her trek didn’t reveal anything useful about her except that she liked brisk walks through the local park. She’d made no other stops, contacted no one. Unless O’Donohue was capable of freezing time and slipping through some mythical portal only to return and resume normal time, her walk was just that, a walk.
He stopped a block away from the club, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, watching as she slipped inside. Of course, he never took anything at face value; the most innocuous event could prove useful at some point. With that in mind, he committed the route she took to memory before returning to his hotel room.
Gwyneth entered the dim interior of the club and made her way through the maze of tables and chairs to the bar. The club was quiet; the doors wouldn’t open for another two hours. Hired help would begin to arrive in an hour, the lights would be turned on, music would fill the space greeting patrons and drawing them into the promise of a fun-filled evening. Club Mystique was an escape from daily life, a place to relax, to meet old friends or make new ones. It was also a gathering place for shifters, Fae, witches and the like. Humans frequented the club as well and for that reason, all supernatural abilities were to be kept firmly under wraps. If you caused trouble, you were banned for life.
It wasn’t often that she had to kick someone out. When she did, it was usually a shifter and, most often, a Lycan. Some might point out there were more Lycans in North America than other species so it skewed the figures. She didn’t care. Years of experience had formed her opinion and it would take a monumental event to change it.
Take today, for example. That damned dog had delighted in baiting her. It wasn’t often that someone bested her in a conversation. Her acerbic tongue was a finely-honed weapon that she wielded without compunction. But not today. The man had caught her off guard, curse him. It wouldn’t happen again though. Next time they met, and there would be a next time she was sure of it, she’d put him in his place.
She poured herself a drink and then sat on a barstool sipping the beverage. When the club was open, she never drank. Keeping a clear head was needed in order to supervise the various activities but one glass before opening was a guilty indulgence.
Eyelids half lowered, she soaked in the quiet and watched the ghosts of the previous evening. Not real ghosts, of course. More like leftover bits of energy, echoes of conversations and emotions. They were too intense right after the club closed but now, almost a day later, the shadows could be dealt with.
“What do you think, Sven?” She addressed the skull tattoo on her upper arm. “Is the atmosphere neutral enough to handle another crowd?”
Sven grinned at her and she nodded in agreement. “Right. No cleansing needed. We’re good for another night.” It was a welcome conclusion. She wanted a hot shower before opening. If a cleansing had been needed, she wouldn’t have shirked her duty—the club patrons deserved a blank slate to start the evening on—but when everything rested on her shoulders, it was nice to be able to skip over a task.
“If Tina hadn’t left, I could have taught her how to take over the job.” She took another sip of her drink. “That’s the problem, Sven. You start to depend on someone and they leave.”
She glanced at Sven who, of course, didn’t answer.
“Even you. You’re much more dependable as a tat than you were as a human. Whenever I need someone to talk to, you’re here.” She patted his head. “You didn’t mean to die, I know, but it reinforces my point, don’t you think?”
After downing the rest of her drink, she climbed the stairs to her third-floor apartment. She kicked off her shoes at the door, left her t-shirt on a nearby chair and then dropped her pants on the sofa. By the time she was in the bedroom, she was naked and her clothes were spread throughout the apartment. One of the joys of living alone; she didn’t have to be tidy unless she wanted to.
Sherman wandered in. He jumped on the bed and blinked at her with no sign of remorse for his behaviour that morning.
“Unrepentant beast.” She scratched behind his ears and he head-butted her hand in appreciation.
“Is it going to be a good night?” Why she asked his opinion, she had no idea. Every night was a good night in his opinion. He hung out in the kitchen and ate scraps until he was full and then curled up in her office to sleep until closing time. The concept of patrolling for mice either eluded him or was beneath his dignity.
Leaving the cat to groom, she turned to head to the bathroom when a wave of dizziness came over her. Stumbling, her legs growing weak, she grabbed the doorjamb to steady herself, knowing only too well what was happening. She was about to have another accursed vision.
“Bloody hell!” Even as the curse left her mouth the room faded to darkness.
She was in a forest, mist swirling around her legs, the cold of the ground causing her to curl her toes. She turned in a circle, her arms wrapped around herself in an effort to stay warm. A blood-red light bathed the sky while the light of the moon created a beckoning path stretching out before her leading deeper into the woods. For some reason, she was reluctant to step into the light and held back, resisting the pull until a faint sound reached her ears.
A child was crying, softly at first, the sounds growing in intensity, incessant, heart-breaking sobs that wrenched at the soul and brought tears to her own eyes. Instinctively, she began to move towards it, pushing aside her fear of the lit path. First walking and then running, the need to comfort the babe became all consuming. She had to find it, save it, cradle it to her chest and protect it from an unseen evil that hovered somewhere in the shadows. The tree branches seemed to reach out now, trying to hold her back, snatching at her clothing, roots erupting from the ground, causing her to stumble and fall.
The child’s cries were now mixed with those of a woman, a grief-filled wail that rose and fell. She struggled to her feet, knowing she had to help but unable to regain her footing. She looked around for something to hold, to help pull herself up, only to hear a low growl nearby. A wolf was stalking towards her, head lowered, teeth bared.
Icy fear filled her. She could feel its hate, see it in its eyes. Scrambling along the ground, she tried to escape but a ring of fire appeared, trapping her and the wolf within. The creature crouched, preparing to leap. A spell! She needed to use her magic to defend herself except her mind was blank. There were no words, no power within her, no defence against the animal.
A scream ripped from her throat as the creature leapt and the vision dissolved, leaving her staring at the comforter hanging over the edge of her bed. She was crouched in the corner of the room, her back pressed to the wall, her bed in front of her. Her chest h
eaved as she gasped for breath, her throat felt tight with the tears she tried to hold at bay. The vision had been terrifying but Gwyneth O’Donohue didn’t cry. It was sweat that dampened her cheek and she raised a shaky hand to dash it away.
Sherman peered at her from under the bed, his eyes wider than normal, his tail twitching madly.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Her lips struggled to form the words, her thinking sluggish.
The cat must have accepted her apology for it crawled out of the hiding space and brushed against her giving a low, throaty meow that was probably supposed to be comforting. Or perhaps it was a reproach for upsetting the evening routine. It was hard to tell with Sherman.
She petted the animal’s head and then used the bed to pull herself to her feet. Shit, she hated visions! Other witches had them with no ill-effects, zoning out for a few measly seconds, but not her. It was like she was allergic to them, complete with hangover effects that could last for hours after the event.
On rubbery legs, she navigated the room. Her head was pounding, her stomach felt queasy.
“Even a witchling can handle visions! Why can’t I? Oh fuck!” She stumbled to the bathroom, her stomach going into full reverse.
The retching eventually passed and once her legs felt steadier she took a shower, letting the rushing water cleanse her body while the white noise soothed her mind. Leaning against the ceramic tiles, she pondered the meaning of the vision that had shaken her equilibrium. A wolf could indicate the Lycan she’d encountered earlier, though she could hardly see that he’d pose a danger beyond annoying her. Was there a lost child in the neighbourhood? Not likely; this wasn’t a residential area. And what was the ring of fire? The dark arts often called for a ring of fire but she hadn’t felt any energy fluctuations that would indicate black magic being used. Was this a premonition of the future? Or a warning from the past?