Demon Familiar

Jory Strong

Supernatural Bonds, Book Seven

Pulled from the void by a binding spell, demon essence becomes mortal-familiar, and Ianthe

forms, yielding to her preference for the female shape. She longs to live a human life, to love as
a human, and while she’s escaped the dark realm and the lord she called master, she can’t
escape her nature.

Incubus, succubus, Ianthe is able to shift between male and female forms, though both

aspects need to be fed. She could have any man, but it’s Homicide Detective Miguel Torres she
wants, the man who unknowingly summoned and bound her. Their attraction is intense,
immediate, and Miguel believes he’ll never want another—until he meets Ian, Ianthe’s
mysterious twin.

Attempting to withstand needs and urges denied since childhood, Miguel buries himself in

Ianthe’s lush body as he battles his attraction to Ian. Then drowns in shame when he succumbs
to it—only to have the murder of a gay teen force him to revisit the past…before he loses his
future.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing

www.ellorascave.com

Demon Familiar

ISBN 9781419936609
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Demon Familiar Copyright © 2011 Jory Strong

Edited by Kelli Collins
Cover design by Syneca
Photography by Syneca; Vitaly M/Shutterstock.com

Electronic book publication September 2011

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Demon Familiar

Jory Strong

Prologue

Miguel Torres sat in the corner near the altar, the old wooden chair pushed against the wall.

Truth was, he’d be on the other side of the wall—outside in the fresh mountain air and free of
this—if he could.

Respect for his mother kept him in place when the need to bolt nearly overwhelmed him.

The smell of old age and sickness, tobacco smoke and copal, pitch incense, filled his nostrils in
a mix of scents that made him slightly nauseous.

Freaking amazing, how he could stand over a dead body at a crime scene and never—well,

not since the first time during his rookie year on the force—feel like puking, but here he was
fighting the urge to hurl. Then again, to give himself credit; he was handling being named a
brujo, a witch, pretty damn well.

Looking up from his study of the rough wooden flooring, he checked on his tatarabuelo, his

great-great-grandfather, who sat in a recliner in front of the altar. The old man appeared fragile
and ancient. Today only his face was visible in the wrap of colorful blankets meant to keep the
chill at bay.

He should be in the hospital. Miguel had said as much, multiple times since coming to this

remote village in the Sierra de Puebla with his mother.

“I’m not afraid to go permanently to Talocan,” was the old man’s response. “The lords who

rule there know me. They know what I’ve been up too here. I’ll introduce you to them, but not
for a while yet. Better not to draw their attention until you understand their ways.”

Miguel shivered. He didn’t actually believe he was a witch, despite what his great-great-

grandfather claimed. Even so, the prospect of visiting Talocan, the place sometimes called
Most Holy Earth or the inferno, and the underworld of his tatarabuelo’s belief system, was
enough to lift the hairs on his arms and make his chest tighten.

Not happening. No way.
He could handle the weird. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be a participant in the weird.
His tatarabuelo stirred, eyes moving behind his lids for long moments before they fluttered

opened. It took moments longer for him to fully rouse and focus on Miguel. “Good, you’ve kept
your promise and stayed. There’s not much time now.”

A knock on the door had relief surging through Miguel. He stood. “I’ll get it.” But it opened

before he could take a step.

His great-great-grandfather’s sister stuck her head inside. “Someone needs your help. She’s

traveled a long way.”

The old man struggled with his blankets, finally freeing his hands and arms so he wouldn’t

appear like a swaddled infant. He told his sister to send the woman in.

Miguel rose and got another chair for his tatarabuelo’s guest, the longing to escape

sharpening with the sight of blue skies and colorful flowers through the open doorway. He’d
offer to step outside to allow for privacy, but it would do no good. Since his tatarabuelo had
claimed the recliner in front of the altar shortly after taking his breakfast in bed, he’d insisted

Miguel remain with him.

Miguel’s guts knotted. He couldn’t shake the idea that his great-great-grandfather meant to

make sure he died in his presence.

Reclaiming his seat, he let his mind wander, tuning out a conversation spoken in Nahuat.

After the woman left, his tatarabuelo said, “A coyote killed her daughter’s son.”

Miguel straightened though he knew there was nothing he could do. He had no pull with

Mexican authorities, and coyotes, human smugglers, were frequently connected to powerful
cartels that controlled areas along the border through terror and bribes.

He knew he’d probably regret it, but curiosity made him ask, “Why did she come to you?”

He didn’t need to ask why she hadn’t gone to the authorities. Fear.

His tatarabuelo smiled, eyes shining with approval. “She wants something bad to befall the

coyote. There are ways to ensure it. I will teach them to you. The lords of darkness can cause
terrible things to happen among the living when they see someone’s cause as just. Once you
know their ways, you can request their aid.”

Dios. That’s the last thing he wanted to do, tangle with beings he’d grown up thinking of as

demons.

Chapter One

She craved sex. Not the sustenance stolen from sleepers caught in webs of carnal

fantasies, but the touch of skin to skin, the pounding ecstasy of penetration.

Until the summoning, it had been hundreds of years since she had walked among humans in

her female aspect. Seductress, enchantress—succubus, stealing seed and sometimes life. It
had been the same number of years since taking on a purely masculine aspect, becoming
incubus in order to seduce the unwilling as well as to impregnate those witches who hoped for
a child with dark, unearthly gifts.

Phantom lips curled in a smile as she thought of the medallion with its hidden spell for a

secondary summoning. Wise, wise mage to have bargained with her when he first pulled her
through the portal. He’d been made safe from her retribution, though he’d deservedly met his
end at the hands, or rather, the teeth of another.

In the dark of the abyss, she was formless, unable to pleasure herself, sentient only

because she was bound to the medal. But even that was preferable to returning to the dark
realm and demon lord whose will she was subject to.

When she emerged from the abyss she would need to feed both aspects of her nature,

though she had a decided preference for assuming the female form. She would be free, or as
free as one of her kind could be after they’d escaped the shackles of their masters by binding
themselves in a familiar-bond to a witch.

The next time she walked among humans she would be fully mortal. She would be human,

perhaps as she once was, or perhaps for the first time, she didn’t know which. Few demons
knew the truth of their origins. What she did know was that slowly, over the long span of her
existence, the dream of being human had taken hold and filled her with a longing she could no
longer deny. All that was required now was for the right person to come into contact with the
mage-spelled medallion.

* * * * *

Miguel felt the tension ebb as he drew near to his partner Conner’s house, and the party

already in progress. Dios, it was good to be back. He needed this. Between a good time with
friends today, and reporting for work tomorrow, he could distance himself from the weird shit
that had started in Mexico.

Maybe one day he’d share the experience with someone outside of family, but not likely. He

was a homicide cop first, foremost and always.

Mierda. Shit. His tatarabuelo naming him a witch shouldn’t have made it true, except

somehow it had.

“Power of suggestion,” Miguel mumbled, but the words sounded like a lame attempt at

denial even to him. The spirit-walking had started the very night his tatarabuelo had died.

Despite the Florida heat, he shivered at remembering being greeted in his dream by his

great-great-grandfather. “Come, let me show you Talocan,” the old man had said as they

walked over a field of bones, the crunch of them beneath their feet so real, so visceral, the
sound had still echoed in his ears after waking.

Every night since had come with surreal dreams, with introductions to the dead and

knowledge about them that, when tested by asking relatives he’d never met before Mexico,
couldn’t be explained away.

He reached for the volume control, cranking up the tunes and filling his head with music for a

minute before twisting the knob in the reverse direction. Last thing he needed was to get pulled
over for a noise violation.

He glanced at the passenger seat and the Dos Equis he’d swung by the grocery store to

get. Not that Conner wouldn’t have plenty of brew, but all beer did not taste the same and he’d
picked up a couple of six-packs, the first because he intended to share, the second because
Storm O’Malley was at the party—and she wasn’t alone.

Fuck! He’d been gone what? A little over two weeks, doing his duty as a good son and

playing escort to his mother. A fucking two weeks, and in that time, Storm—who he’d been so
sure was going to be the one once he finally convinced her to say yes to a first date—had
found someone else. FOUND in capital and permanent letters, according to Conner.

Miguel massaged the area above his heart, soothing away pain he knew was more

intellectual than real in nature. It wasn’t like he’d shared anything personal with Storm. She’d
never led him on about his chances, but damn…

He’d been half in love with her.
Grimacing, he admitted a different truth to himself. He was in love with the idea of being in

love with her and she was just the latest challenge, though he refused to give up the belief
completely that she might really have been the one.

Banging badge bunnies got old. He wanted what his mother and father had, what a couple

of his brothers and three of his sisters had; a solid marriage, someone to come home to at the
end of the day.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d reached that point, though he’d reached it long

before his friends had. First Trace, taken out of play by Aislinn. And now Conner, snagged by
Khemirra and already talking wedding dates.

Who next? Dylan, Trace’s partner?
Miguel laughed, wishing he wasn’t driving so he could open a beer and lift it in a silent

tribute. As much as he wanted to be in a committed relationship, he wouldn’t mind seeing Dylan
get bumped to the front of the matrimonial line. Because when Dylan’s turn came, it was going
to be one hell of show. Dylan wasn’t going to go down easy.

Turning onto Conner’s street, Miguel grinned. Cars lined the curbs on both sides. No

surprise. Free food, free booze, both guaranteed a good turnout, but the real kicker for the
cops in attendance was showing up to meet the woman who’d snagged one of their own.

He claimed the first parking spot he saw rather than risk having to circle the block, and

putting the truck tight against the curb, grabbed up the Dos Equis before making his way
toward Conner’s house. A country song twanged from the backyard, a male voice singing about
seeing his ex in the arms of another man.

It was enough to vibrate phantom strings in Miguel’s chest and have him going through the

front door instead of the side gate. He needed a minute to steel himself against seeing Storm.

Female voices drew him down the hall toward the kitchen, that and the fact he’d be able to

observe through the window. Better to get the first look of Storm with her boyfriend and get
used to the sight without being surrounded by sharp-eyed cops.

In the kitchen doorway, he got distracted by Aislinn and a woman who made him rethink his

long-standing and nearly exclusive pursuit of blondes. He knew who he was looking at; had to
be, given the legs that didn’t stop and the exotic beauty.

Setting the beer on the table, he gave Aislinn a hug then pulled the stranger into his arms.

“I’m Miguel Torres, Conner’s partner, and I’m guessing you’re Khemirra, the reason we’re all
here.”

“You’re right on the first count at least.”
He laughed, releasing her. The attitude in her voice said it all. She was perfect for Conner.
Miguel reached for the beer but his eyes were drawn to a medallion on the table. His hand

followed without it being a conscious decision and he picked up the medal.

“Fuck!”
He flung it down hard enough for it to bounce a couple of times.
Heat flamed through his cheeks. “Sorry, guess I’m still a little jumpy from my trip. It felt like

my hand was on fire.”

A burst of laughter gave him an excuse to shove the weirdness aside. Through the window

he saw Dylan, Conner and Trace, and a short distance away, Storm next to a long-haired
blond.

Mierda. They looked good together. Right together.
He surprised himself by being able to smile. It was okay. He could risk going outside without

whimpering like a puppy or giving her sad eyes—both of which would lead to some merciless
teasing, and fuck, he’d endured enough of it because of his well-known infatuation.

Lifting the cartons, he said, “I’ll leave you two to your girl talk.”

* * * * *

Inescapable summoning pulled her from the abyss, and in the moment of her mortal birth,

pride gripped her. She refused to stand in for another, to glimpse her image in the mirror and
know it was a copy of the original, a fantasy made flesh and based on a woman known as
Storm.

She created herself in an image of her own making, choosing facial features more feminine

than masculine, but only slightly so, minimizing the energy that would be required in order to
shift between her two physical aspects. She did the same with her height, the knowledge
gained the instant the familiar-bond snapped into place allowing her to match her body to
Miguel’s, so that when they lay entwined, male to male, or female to male, their eyes and lips
would meet and their genitals would touch in perfect alignment.

Miguel Julio Torres. She tasted his name, felt the hum of it through her veins, the beat of it

in her heart as her cunt throbbed, her clit already erect, a tiny version of the penis she
possessed in her male aspect.

She gave herself generous breasts, for her pleasure as well as his, though it galled her that

the unknown Storm was also lushly endowed. Her eyes she left the dark sapphire blue she’d
chosen when first called and forced to serve as a soul-sighted bloodhound wearing only the
illusion of humanity.

She made her skin tone similar to Miguel’s and her hair the same black as his, though vanity

sent it cascading down her back in thick waves. It would cost her energy to shorten it when she
shifted forms, but perhaps Miguel wouldn’t require it.

Red lips pursed together in a frown. Scattered among the impressions gained with the

forming of the familiar-bond were numerous images containing women who’d come to Miguel’s
bed. Blondes, some natural and some dyed, their bodies a variety of shapes and sizes. There
were no male lovers.

It confused more than concerned her. She’d watched the mage carefully as he’d woven the

secondary spell into the medallion, the incantations that would allow her a mortal existence.
Only a male witch capable of feeding both of her aspects sexually could trigger the summoning.

Shrugging off thoughts of Miguel’s past lovers, she glanced down at her naked body, its

form shimmering at the edge of true existence, not yet real enough to touch and be touched
though it hungered for both. Moisture glistened on her inner thighs, a wet invitation for a man’s
fingers and mouth and cock. For Miguel’s. She could feed from others but to do so would only
be a continuation of the existence she’d sought to escape. The longing to be human
encompassed more than possessing flesh and blood.

A dark triangle of pubic hair pointed to her clit and opening. She made herself bare then

thought better of it, saw in her mind’s eye her male aspect and settled on a small patch of
down, something that wouldn’t interfere with the pleasure of having Miguel’s mouth on her.

Satisfied, she clothed herself in miniscule shorts and a shirt tied beneath her breasts.

Sandals followed, and a thin, folded collection of paper money, though unlike her physical body,
the money and the things she wore were similar to faerie glamour. They would last only three
days in the human realm. And once she stepped from the glimmering edge of the abyss, the
place where creation was possible, she would be limited to a human form.

The spell crafted by the mage would pull her essence fully into the human realm. It would

allow her to change her appearance and gender, to become a human shapeshifter, though the
magic feeding the spell, and tied to her demon nature, would need to be replenished.

With a final assessment she took that plunge into mortal existence, leaving the void of dark

potential to merge first with a narrow tree shadow and then to emerge from it. Her lungs filled
with the sweet scent of flowers and she lifted her face to glorious sun, closing her eyes as she
felt its heated caress on her skin.

The sound of music reached her, touching places inside her, drawing her forward as surely

as the familiar-bond allowing her to find Miguel did. She went willingly, forcing herself to move
slowly, not for the sake of pride but so she could savor the sensation of being truly mortal. Of
having a heart that beat not because she had to maintain the pretense of being human—as she
had when she came to this world as a demon lord’s tool—but because she needed it to live.

That heart skipped into a rapid beat as she stopped in front of the house. Voices and music

beckoned from the backyard. She glanced downward, resisting the urge to smooth her hands
over her breasts, to rub her palms against hardened nipples before moving lower, across her
abdomen, to slip beneath the waistband of her shorts.

Her channel clenched hungrily, her entire body shivered with the need for carnal touch and

physical joining. Anticipation burned in her belly like fire, hot and eager, spreading upward to fill
her breasts.

She chose to go directly into the backyard rather than pass through the house, each step

heightening her need, pressing her clit to the soft material of her shorts. A smile curved her lips

at the decadent feel of it, the knowledge she was bare beneath her clothing where others wore
undergarments. At the gate she paused again, this time to gather her control and try to tamp
down the natural allure that came with her nature. There was only one man here she wished to
seduce, and be seduced by.

Opening the gate, she stepped into the backyard. A dozen pairs of eyes were immediately

drawn to her, half of them darkening with lust, but only one pair mattered. Miguel’s. Her body
tightened in need and appreciation. Fantasy assailed her, where always before she’d been the
creator of it.

Hunger and craving became inseparable, an indistinguishable part of the familiar-bond that

stretched between them as their eyes met across the distance. The confidence of her kind
becoming like surf against a sandy beach, claiming ground then giving it up.

Pride assailed her again, demanding he choose her of his own free will. She cast a tentative

smile, breath coming again only when he took the first step toward her.

Dios, everything about her called to him. Whoever she was, he hoped she wasn’t with a

date. He could no more stop himself from crossing to her than he could prevent himself from
chasing a running criminal.

It felt like his cock was on a leash and she was drawing him forward. And his eyes…it

required a supreme effort of will to keep them lifted to her face when the hard press of nipples
against her shirt kept trying to jerk them downward.

Reaching her, he held out his hand. “I’m Miguel. Are you looking for someone?”
Heat spread across his cheeks at how that had come out, a proposition backed up by a

willingness to make good on it. He was half afraid he’d drop to his knees and press kisses to
her belly, even with an audience full of cops.

“I think I’ve found him.”
Jesus. He was grateful for the cold beer in one hand and hers in the other. Otherwise he

might have reached for his cock like a kid just figuring out the pleasure to be found in
masturbating.

“I wasn’t officially invited to the party,” she said. “I heard the music and… Do you think it’s

okay I’m here?”

Miguel squeezed her hand, wanting to carry it to his lips, his chest, his dick. “Consider

yourself my date.”

She met his eyes and he lost himself in the dark blue of them, seeing images of stretching

her out on his bed and coming down on top of her, of finding her slit and filling it with his cock.
The words, “Let’s go,” hovered on his lips even though he’d just gotten there.

He took a deep breath. A mistake, as the scent of her only fueled the lust, like the inhalation

of pheromones signaling a need, a readiness to mate.

“What’s your name?” he managed.
She hesitated, sending a spike of fear through him—that she’d give him a phony one

because she’d already decided he meant nothing to her.

“Ianthe.”
Truth or lie? “That’s unique.”
“It’s Greek.”
It went with the color of her skin and pitch-black hair, and damn, he didn’t know much about

the Greek goddesses, but she could have been one.

“You two going to keep standing there making moon eyes at each other, or you going to join

the party?” Brady Sinclair yelled from his position next to the grill.

Laughter followed, scattered through the crowd like a shotgun blast. “Come on, I’ll introduce

you to the guys I work with, then we can grab a bite to eat. You want something to drink first?”

“I’ll have what you’re having.”
He grinned. “Further proof you’re definitely a woman of discerning tastes.”
Guiding her over to the table where he’d set the two six-packs, he released her hand long

enough to open one of the Dos Equis and pass it to her, his cock throbbing when she lifted it to
her lips and took a long pull from the bottle. Fuck, if he didn’t get her out of here, sooner rather
than later, he was going to end up giving the cops around him ammunition for an endless
stream of teasing.

Seeing the way some of them were looking at her already had him feeling like a dog

guarding a bone. He crowded closer, trapping her against the table and blocking a large
number of male eyes while at the same time sending a message loud and clear. Stay away.

Ianthe basked in the heat of Miguel’s gaze and the warmth coming from his body. A flutter

went through her belly when he recaptured her hand, his thumb brushing over the back of it.

“So what do you do for a living?” he asked.
The question blanked her mind. In the past, when she’d been a frequent visitor to this world,

it had been enough to be a beautiful, willing woman, or a handsome man exuding power.
Nothing more was required to gain an invitation to someone’s bed for a brief tryst.

Her lack of an answer had a frown forming on Miguel’s face, suspicion gathering at the

corners of his eyes. She hastened to answer, speaking without thought of where it might lead.
“I don’t have a job yet. I’ve only just arrived.”

“From where?”
Unfamiliar emotion washed through her though she recognized it must be panic. “Nowhere in

particular.”

The suspicion in his eyes deepened and she had to fight against distracting him with lust.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“I don’t have a place yet. Last night I stayed in a hotel.”
The lie dulled the taste of the beer. It brought with it uneasy guilt despite having no choice

but to utter it.

She could hardly tell him the truth, at least not here. Yet it felt uncomfortable to lie now,

when once lies had been nothing more than honeyed words to her, bait set in a trap for mortal
prey.

To forestall further questioning she tried to redirect the conversation, asked, “What about

you, what do you do?”

“I’m a homicide detective. Conner, the guy throwing this get-together, is my partner.”
Concern sped her pulse. Her mouth went dry as her thoughts flashed back to when Armand

Scholes had possessed the medallion, when he’d ordered her to torture the werewolf Khemirra
Reis—as Detective Conner Stern watched and made his wrists bleed, fighting against his
restraints.

Khemirra had ripped the medallion from Armand Scholes’ possession, breaking the primary

spell and sending Ianthe into the abyss to wait for the right male witch to trigger the secondary
binding. She’d sensed that not much time had passed between that first summoning and now,
but it seemed inconceivable the werewolf had meant for her to be here.

She wanted to ask Miguel how he’d come to touch the medallion, anxiety rising until she

realized the werewolf couldn’t know about the hidden spell. Nor would Khemirra recognize her.
Scent wouldn’t give her away and her appearance differed from before.

Relief surged into Ianthe, foreign for all its intensity though it was short-lived, ending with

Miguel’s return to the topic she’d wished to avoid. “What kind of job will you be looking for?”

A certain amount of knowledge, an impression of current times and global reality, were

imparted at passing through the barrier separating the dark realm from this one. She leaned
forward, so her mouth was deliciously close to his, going on the offensive because she didn’t
want to mar this first day with more deceit, already hating that there was any between them.
“Are you afraid I’ll work as an escort or a porn star?”

A small moan escaped him, an unconscious closing of the distance between them. And then

it was her turn to fight a whimper when he stopped himself from claiming her mouth in a very
public kiss, murmured against her lips, “You’d rake in the bucks if you did.”

The near taste of him whetted her appetite. “I’m not sure what I’ll do for a living here.

Perhaps tend bar. Will it make being with me okay if I tell you whatever job I take will be
perfectly respectable?”

Something inside Miguel loosened. Fuck. Everything about her was an advertisement for

sex. Was it any surprise a part of him had been worried she was a working girl, as defined by
the guys in Vice?

“Yeah, it makes things easier,” he admitted.
“I’m glad.”
The sound of her voice was a hand sliding up and down his shaft. He might as well forget

about catching up on what’d happened in his absence. He couldn’t make himself care.

He told himself to put distance between her lips and his, because if he started kissing her,

there was a chance it’d quickly become an X-rated show. But his mouth and his dick overruled
him.

He set his beer bottle down on the table and released her hand, but only so he could settle

both of his on the bare skin of her sides. Jesus, she was hot. To touch. To look at. He closed
the minuscule distance between their lips. To taste.

Lust engulfed him with the first silky caress of her tongue to his, the flames of it like a

partition of fire blocking out all reality except Ianthe.

Intoxicating. That was the only word to describe kissing her.
No. Make it consuming. An enthrallment that deepened with each small sound of pleasure he

pulled from her as his hands moved up and down her sides and his pelvis ground against hers.

Her arms went around his neck, pressing her breasts with their hardened nipples more

firmly against his chest. Inviting him to deepen the thrust of his tongue, though each foray of it
into her mouth made his cock widen and lengthen and grow more desperate for the feel of her
wet sheath.

One kiss and he knew he was hooked. And as that first moved into a second, he wondered

how he was ever going to stop long enough to get her away from the party and home with him.

Chapter Two

The instant Khemirra stepped into the backyard, fear returned, expanding beyond the

consequences to Miguel as a result of his touching the medallion, to now include the unknown
woman he was kissing with enough passion to send a heat wave scorching through the
gathered cops and their dates.

There were plenty of flushed faces, and the red didn’t come from embarrassment. Hell,

desire curled in her belly, nearly overriding the fear. In a minute she just might start panting,
and she wasn’t sure she could blame it on the wolf.

She searched for Conner, the wolf part of her nature snapping phantom teeth, a possessive

message that her mate better not be lusting after another female. She found him standing next
to Aislinn’s husband Trace.

Their eyes met as if he’d been looking for her too. His smile nearly made her purr like a

damn cat—a disconcerting effect and one he continued to have on her despite the nearly
nonstop lovemaking they’d been engaged in since Armand Scholes was taken into custody.

Thinking about the reclusive author who’d intended to use her in a breeding program doused

the lust with a reminder that Conner had been running interference, keeping the uber-protective
Trace out of the kitchen while she’d talked to Aislinn about the medallion. For the first time since
Conner had accepted her being a werewolf, Khemirra dreaded the coming conversation about
the supernatural.

When they were being held captive, he’d promised a spanking if she brought up the

supernatural in any way, shape or form—and he was a man of his word, much to her delight.
But this time the subject wasn’t going to serve as foreplay.

He was going to be pissed. Worried. And he had a right to be.
Damn. She should have held off, met Aislinn today then gone to Inner Magick tomorrow for

the consult about the medallion. Instead…

She grimaced. Water under the bridge. Spilt milk and a hundred other clichés, none of which

were going to make her feel any better. She touched the pocket of her shorts where the medal
was now a smooth piece of silver, an ordinary piece of jewelry holding no significance.

Khemirra forced her gaze from Conner and turned toward Aislinn, who’d emerged from the

house right behind her. Inside, Aislinn had thought Miguel’s reaction to the medallion, and the
medallion’s reaction to him, meant he was about to meet his mate, but the woman caught in his
passionate embrace bore no resemblance to the small, beautiful blonde Scholes had used as a
soul-hound.

Khemirra couldn’t suppress a shiver at remembering the taste of brimstone and ash when

her wolf had ripped the medal from Scholes’ throat rather than ripping out his throat. She
couldn’t forget the merciless fury of the being bound to it, and didn’t want to imagine that same
deadly intensity directed at the dark-haired woman now in Miguel’s arms and seemingly well on
her way to his bed.

“Do you recognize her?” Khemirra asked.

Aislinn shook her head. “I don’t know her.”
“Then I think I’d better find a way to warn her away from Miguel.”
“Or vice versa.”
Khemirra turned back toward the kissing couple and was hit by another blast of lust-

producing heat. Oh yeah, good luck with that.

* * * * *

Ianthe wanted more, needed more. Miguel’s desire fed her and yet at the same time

increased her hunger.

She craved the touch of naked flesh to naked flesh, along with penetration. There could be

no satisfying it—not here—though a sound of protest was torn from her when a man joined
them, his presence causing Miguel to end the kiss.

“It’s starting to look like I’m the last man standing,” the dark-haired stranger said. “Are you

going to make introductions or keep us all guessing?”

Miguel stepped away from her, clasping one of her hands as he used the other to reclaim

his beer. “Dylan, Ianthe. Ianthe, Dylan. He works Homicide.”

The detective’s eyes held desire but they didn’t dip below her face. She nodded in greeting

and he returned it with a slow, seductive smile then surprised her by shaking his head, visibly
dispelling the lust.

Once his ability to do so would have frightened her, for what it might mean and how she

would suffer as a result of it, but here, it pleased her to know Miguel had friends with a strong
moral code.

The demon lord she’d called master had likened her kind to a Venus flytrap. It was an apt

description. Had once been an accurate description of her, but no longer. She was mortal now,
human, though despite it, fear streaked through her as she and Miguel and Dylan drew near a
group that included the blonde—Storm—in whose image she’d refused to create herself.

Fey. The knowledge hadn’t been present in the impressions gained when the familiar-bond

slipped into place, but it was there for her to see now. Storm’s soul-aura was streaked with
faerie essence, and at her side was a nonhuman touched by mortality only because he was
bound to one.

A surge of adrenaline accompanied a sudden, intense urge to flee. She fought against

dragging her footsteps, from coming up with an excuse that would take her in the opposite
direction.

Without weapons, she was defenseless except for her ability to seduce. And that wouldn’t

work against the fey they approached, given his bond with Storm.

In olden times, before the decrease of magic and overabundance of humans caused their

exodus into other realms, fey, Elven and dragon alike would kill a demon on sight if they could,
denying her kind the opportunity to feed or play in this world.

Her hand tightened on Miguel’s. He squeezed back, leaning over to brush a kiss across her

ear and whisper, “Don’t be intimidated. I’ve got your back.”

She drew strength from it. I’m no different from any other human possessing supernatural

gifts. She forced herself to relax though it was impossible to be completely calm. Conner—the
Were’s mate—was among those gathered.

Miguel introduced Storm as “Brady’s partner, for better or worse”, and her boyfriend—the

fey—as Professor Tristan Lisalli, then Trace as Dylan’s partner and, lastly, Conner as his.

The beat of her heart peaked in crescendo. And she, who had once boldly brought

monarchs and holy men to their knees with the sultry demand in her eyes, quickly averted her
gaze when she saw the glimmer of suspicion in Conner’s. Too late, she realized it had been a
mistake not to change the color of her eyes from the sapphire blue she’d had when Scholes
possessed the medallion and commanded her obedience.

The Were joined them, accompanied by a woman wearing butterfly earrings perched on her

ears to hide the pointed tips, though her soul-aura revealed the truth of her heritage, half-elf,
half-human. Even without the heated possessiveness of Trace’s arm around the woman,
introduced as his wife Aislinn, Ianthe saw the bond that existed between them in the way the
violet and gold of Aislinn’s aura encircled Trace’s.

The look of surprise on Aislinn’s face made fear spike through Ianthe at somehow being

recognized in spite of the purely human form. She tensed when the half-elf reached over,
squeezing Khemirra’s arm in the silent conveyance of a message.

The Were’s nostrils flared, as if seeking demon scent. Her expression flashed to puzzled,

but when the introductions were made, there was no doubt that she knew who Ianthe was.

It seemed equally certain the Were hadn’t meant for Miguel to touch the medallion.

Khemirra’s eyes bored into hers, lips curving in a smile that was nearly a wolf’s baring of teeth,
a warning that her protection of her chosen male extended to his partner.

Ianthe didn’t lower her gaze. She met challenge with challenge but offered no hostility.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, Khemirra thought. This was well beyond her experience, and

she’d seen some strange stuff. Shit. There was zero doubt in her mind that Ianthe was the
being Scholes had used as a soul-hound. Different form, and this one was purely human. Same
unmistakable eyes.

She wanted to grab Aislinn and return to the kitchen for a second consult, before she hauled

Ianthe in for one. Conner was going to—

He snaked his arm around her, and by the tension running through it she was glad he wasn’t

wearing a gun. “Khemirra?”

The rumbled sound of her name told her everything she needed to know. He wasn’t just

reacting to her reaction, but had seen Ianthe’s eyes and made the connection himself. Oh yeah,
the conversation they were going to have after their guests left was not going to be fun.

Better defuse the situation for now and accept Aislinn’s earlier pronouncement about Miguel

meeting his match. Deal with it later, including paying a visit to Aislinn’s witch acquaintance and
gathering information, as well as talking to Ianthe.

She forced herself to relax—no easy feat—and touched her hand to Conner’s belly, giving it

a little pat. “I think it’s time to get you something to eat. You’re getting growly.”

Laughter met her statement, easing the awkwardness created by the nonverbal exchange

between her and Ianthe. The comment triggered a general move toward a grill surrounded by
male chefs swapping gossip.

Relief surged into Ianthe, along with a feeling of gratitude toward Khemirra for breaking the

tension instead of escalating the confrontation or demanding she leave. But while those
emotions were disconcerting, unfamiliar yet easy for her to adjust to, the heavy quality of
Miguel’s silence fashioned the familiar-bond into a hangman’s noose.

As they approached the grill, her stomach signaled physical hunger and her mouth watered.

Miguel released her hand to pass her a plate. One of the gathered policemen asked,
“Hamburger or hot dog?”

“Hot dog.”
Miguel chose a hamburger, the two of them stopping to apply condiments before he guided

her to a padded chaise lounge. She sat with her back against the cushion while he straddled
the chair.

The position made it impossible to ignore warm brown thighs and the pronounced bulge of

his cock against the front of his cutoffs, though his voice was terse rather than warm with
desire when he asked, “How do you know Khemirra?”

Her throat ached as if the imaginary noose had tightened. She found an answer containing

the truth. “Through a mutual acquaintance.”

It was no act to summon rage and allow Miguel to see it, fury at having been forced to touch

a cattle prod to Khemirra’s skin when ordered to do so. “He wronged Khemirra but there was
nothing, nothing, I could do to prevent it.”

She swallowed down the anger. “I’m hopeful Khemirra understands and will forgive me. But

if I’d known this was her party, I wouldn’t have shown up as I did.”

Miguel visibly relaxed, letting it go as Khemirra herself had let it go. And though Ianthe hadn’t

thought to offer either apology or reassurance to the Were, the release of emotion
accompanying the feeling of “rightness restored” between Miguel and her, prompted her to say,
“I’ll seek Khemirra out tomorrow and speak with her. If it’s possible, I’d like to one day call her
a friend, and have her think the same of me.”

His smile was her reward. It curled her toes and flooded her with happiness, making her

glad she’d dared to do what few of her kind did, exchange one type of bondage for another.

Hunger returned in a rush, for physical sustenance as well as that required by her soul. She

glanced downward and the sight of Miguel’s muscled thighs and the hard ridge of his erection
had her channel clenching. She licked her lips unintentionally and he gave a strangled laugh, a
husky, aroused curse. “Mierda.”

He lowered his plate so it blocked her view, though his face held a hungry expression. His

gaze dropped to her breasts with their taut nipples, lingering there for a heated moment before
lifting to meet hers again. Had they been alone, she would have touched herself, first through
the shirt and then after parting it.

His throat worked on a swallow as if he grasped the nature of her thoughts. “Keep that up

and I’m going to jump you.”

“Here, among your friends?”
Once the idea might have appealed to her, had appealed to her for the tremendous boost of

easy energy in days when voyeurism served as an appetizer and orgies often became a
feeding frenzy attended by several of her kind. But now, the idea of sharing Miguel, of letting
anyone witness his sexual pleasure, had her hands tightening on the hotdog partially lifted to
her mouth, crushing the bread so ketchup dripped like blood, hitting the paper plate in her lap.

Miguel grinned. “Don’t freak out, I can wait until we get back to my place before pouncing.

Barely. But I can hold out that long.”

She loosened her grip on her food, his humor making her laugh. She took a bite of the hot

dog, closing her eyes at the unexpected bliss of its taste.

She’d eaten exquisitely prepared meals served in nearly endless courses, dined in the

company of kings and popes and emperors. But those meals taken with food, chewed and
swallowed while wearing the illusion of humanity, were dust compared to the rich flavors
against her mortal tongue.

A second bite brought a soft sigh from her but a low moan from Miguel. She opened her

eyes to find him staring at her mouth, his heated expression presenting a temptation she
couldn’t resist. She lowered her hands, angling them to allow him to see the length of the hot
dog nestled in the bun as she touched her tongue to the meat, eliciting a curse from him.

Fuck! It was time to leave, before something went sideways or he embarrassed himself. His

cock screamed the message and the rest of him went along with it. He didn’t even care about
abandoning the Dos Equis and getting home to a refrigerator without beer if it meant making a
beeline from the lounge chair to his bed.

“You want to get out of here?”
Her smile heated him up, making his dick feel like one of those balloons blown up and

twisted into the shape of a hound.

“Can I take my food?”
A gentleman would say, We can stay long enough for you to finish it. He couldn’t bring

himself to do it. He felt desperate to get her alone.

Mierda. It hadn’t been that long since he’d had sex. He’d said no to the badge bunnies while

pursuing Storm because banging one of them would have gotten back to her, but it’s not like he
worried going forward about his hand becoming the only way he found release. He’d lost his
virginity before he was a teenager, to a girl four years older. Since then, he’d never had to go
without unless it was by choice.

He got to his feet and waited for her to do the same. Sparing a glance in Conner’s direction,

he gave a small wave when Conner’s attention caught on him, then turned and guided Ianthe to
the gate.

Upending the beer bottle, he watered a bed of cactus plants before ditching the glass in a

recycle bin Conner had strategically placed by the gate. It was too much to hope he could leave
without being noticed—obviously with a woman and in such a hurry he was taking his food with
him, and making her do the same, rather than remaining and acting civilized.

Whistles and half a dozen ribald comments followed them out. Cops. Tomorrow he’d be

wearing a couple of new nicknames.

He glanced at Ianthe to gauge her reaction and saw a small, pleased smile on her face.

Jesus, he’d be lucky if he made it home without jumping her.

They ate while he drove. Ditched the paper plates in a receptacle set in the parking lot to

encourage tenants not to litter. It left their hands free when they got inside his apartment.

She turned into him, arms going around his neck as though she was as hungry for this as he

was. He took her mouth, moaning at the soft feel of her lips and the way she instantly opened
for him, her tongue as bold as his.

Lust swamped him, swallowed him in a blistering inferno. His hands stroked the bare skin of

her back, traveled lower, grasping her ass in a way it had taken all his self-control not to do
when he’d had her trapped against the refreshment table.

He nearly started panting. One day he was going to spread her buttocks and fuck her there,

but here, now, he released the teasing curves in order to burrow his hands beneath her shirt,

verifying the lack of a bra as he traced the feminine lines of her shoulder blades and held her
tight to his chest, hyperaware of her breasts with their hardened tips.

With each thrust of his tongue into her mouth, his cock screamed its need to tunnel into the

wet heat of her slit. But he couldn’t break away from the kiss even long enough to free it. His
surroundings faded, dimmed until his reality became black-rimmed, a shrinking circle
threatening to take consciousness with it.

His heart pounded in his ears with frantic warning, like a survival instinct kicking in. He

ignored it, unable to make himself care. Having her in his arms was worth passing out over.

She tasted like sin. Dark and spicy, and he couldn’t get enough of her. His reality narrowing

further, nearly becoming a pinprick before he relinquished her mouth—at her insistence, not his.

He was panting, chest moving in and out rapidly. It should have embarrassed him but he felt

only satisfaction when he looked at Ianthe.

Her lips were parted and swollen, glistening. Her eyes were closed, the thick, dark lashes

accenting the flawless perfection of her face.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful. I want to see the rest.”
Her eyes opened, just enough to make her seem submissive, and his cock spasmed in a

primal reaction that left the tip wet with arousal. He’d never played dominance games with a
lover but he wanted to with her.

He didn’t order her to strip because the idea of taking possession of her held greater sway,

pulling his balls tight in anticipation. His hands went to where her shirt was knotted beneath
luscious breasts.

She tilted her head back in acquiescence, the movement jutting her chest out, straining the

thin material over taut, visibly outlined nipples. He brushed his thumbs over them, buttocks
clenching at the sound of her husky moan and the grinding of her pelvis against his.

Slowly he undid the knot, the backs of his fingers caressing the smooth skin beneath the

shirt. The appearance of submission gave way to a sultry expression and the sensuous rub of
her body to his.

He could barely believe he’d been the one she’d chosen. He’d seen the looks some of the

other cops had given her, seen in her eyes that she recognized their lust. But from the moment
he met her at the gate, he’d felt sure of her, sure of her desire for him.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow she was different from the other women he’d

pursued in recent years. Something had always held him back from talking marriage and
children, a topic that made a lot of guys break out in a cold sweat and put on their running
shoes but made him fill with an aching emptiness.

You know why they were never completely right. You know why—
He slammed the door shut on that internal voice, shoring up a long-standing denial by

focusing on her breasts. If he put his mouth on them, he might not lift his head again.

“Do you want me to strip for you?” she asked, flooding his mind with the imagined beat of

music, with the slow removal of clothing in a dance meant to part men from their sanity.

He cupped her breasts, unable to stop himself from lowering his face, capturing a cloth-

covered nipple, stroking his tongue over it, wetting it through the material.

She arched her back, spearing fingers through his hair. “Suck me.”
He bit instead. Sensual discipline and open desire delivered with masculine authority.

He liked the way it made him feel. Powerful. Possessive.
Possessed.
Lust was a roar in his head, his bloodstream. It was a firestorm licking over his skin and

surging through his cock to gather in his balls.

He widened his mouth, taking more, areola and the area surrounding it. Reveling in the

sounds she made, the desperate, tiny cries and quick, shallow inhalations.

Her fingers tightened in his hair. His went to her hips, gripping them, pulling her lower body

forward as her upper body curved away from him. Allowing her to feel the rigid length of his
cock though he held her immobile against it as he bit, sucked, tormented them both by leaving
the barrier of her shirt between them.

The scent of aroused woman had his foreskin retracting farther, his penis jerking, leaking.

He lifted his head and met her gaze, found the pupils dilated, as if he’d become a drug, and his
mouth on her the fix she craved.

“Unbutton your shirt,” he ordered, a raw, primal thrill going through him when she

immediately pulled her hands from his hair and obeyed, parting the material and revealing
herself.

He could come just looking at her breasts. He could spend hours with his mouth on them, his

hands. If she lived with him, he’d want them left bare all the time, accessible so he could touch
them, suck them at will.

The thought shocked him. Excited him.
He claimed a nipple. Closed his eyes at the taste and texture, the way her fingers once

again tangled in his hair, holding him to her as she moaned, not afraid for him to know how
much she liked what he was doing to her.

A pull of his lips had her saying, “I want you inside me.”
He kissed across to the other areola instead, laved it with his tongue, sucking the pouting

flesh deep into his mouth, hands abandoning her hips in order to hold the globes of her breasts
together, shortening the distance between taut nipples.

He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been so hard, so thick and long, as though his cock

intended to escape the confines of his shorts by lengthening and stretching upward. He might
have laughed at his fanciful thoughts except for the throbbing pulse of his penis, the increased
flow of arousal beading at its opening. He bit down on her nipple, as if the clamp of his teeth on
it might translate into the vise-grip of a phantom hand on his dick.

Delicious pain spiked through Ianthe, from nipple to clit, a hot streak of fire through her belly,

a revelation she hadn’t expected when she exchanged one type of enslavement for another.

The familiar-bond altered the dynamic when it came to sex. What she’d once gained while

lying with humans had in turn been siphoned from her by the demon lord she called master.
He’d fed, taking great delight in ripping the stolen essence from her painfully, leaving her with
only enough to sustain existence—and that sustenance had barely lasted long enough for her to
reach Miguel’s apartment.

She’d lost control as they kissed. Miguel’s hunger had been a feast and she’d gorged

herself, the need inside her so great she’d nearly taken too much and sent him into an
exhausted sleep before he could fill her with his cock. Before he could touch his lips to her cunt,
tasting her, thrusting his tongue into her slit. Before he could capture her clit in his mouth and
suck on it as he was her nipple, pulling energy from her, reclaiming some of what he’d lost.

She felt it draining away through the familiar-bond but didn’t care. What he was doing to her

felt good, beyond good, like nothing she’d ever experienced though she’d seen it in those she’d
seduced.

Before, when she was a demon in succubus form, sex was an act. Her satisfaction came in

the conquest and feeding, like a human prostitute’s pleasure coming only from the money
gained and what could be purchased because of it.

Her responses hadn’t been real, hadn’t been deeply felt or honest. She’d been an actress on

a carnal stage, programmed to deliver lines consisting of throaty moans and orgasmic
screams, grunts and praise of a lover’s prowess.

There was no pretense with Miguel. Her fingers tightened in his hair. She arched her back

as if he could take the whole of her breast into his mouth and swallow her down.

“I’m wet for you,” she said, her channel clenching, arousal finally slipping past the hem of her

shorts to become visible on her inner thighs.

He groaned, making her cry out in protest as he took his mouth from her breast, his face

lifting so their eyes met, his a molten pool of dark hunger. His desire intoxicating, so much more
potent than anything she’d ever known.

In her female aspect, she would never need anyone else. He was enough for her, as he

would be in her male form.

She shivered in anticipation of the future. The days they would play together with her shifting

between aspects as the mood and desire demanded, fucking and being fucked as a male and a
female.

She tried to grind her cunt against his cock. He prevented it by dropping his hands to her

hips, holding her still though the feel of her clit pressed to his erection sent another wave of
ecstasy through her.

“I want you in me,” she told him again, and knowing something of the fears of this modern

world, added, “I won’t make you wear a condom. I’m safe, there’s no fear of pregnancy or
disease.”

His hands tightened on her hips. “You’re used to calling the shots with men, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” There was no reason to place a lie between them.
“Not with me. I won’t let you do it with me.”
Mierda. He wondered if he spoke the truth, and forced the doubt from his mind by touching

his lips to her nipple.

He captured it. Sucked. Long, slow pulls before releasing it with a pop and kissing

downward, despite his proclamation, slowly kneeling in front of her.

Her belly invited exploration. He dipped his tongue into her navel, hands gliding along sleek,

feminine sides to halt just above the waistband of her shorts. He could easily rid her of the
clothing, but as he’d done earlier, he commanded her instead. “Show me.”

Her hands left his hair. As they had to bare her breasts for his view, they hurried to the front

of her shorts. Undoing, opening, surprising a moan from him at seeing she wore no panties.

He pushed the shorts off her hips to drop unnoticed to the floor, the whole of his attention

captured by the sight of her pussy. A tiny patch of hair gave the appearance of delicate
femininity while leaving darkened folds and an erect clit accessible, a blatantly carnal invitation
for a man to explore with lips and tongue.

Miguel fought the summons. He refused to yield to it without glancing upward to read her

expression. Gave over to the compulsion to touch, to taste, only after seeing pleading rather
than demand in her eyes, neediness rather the wielding of sexual power.

He pressed his mouth to her heated skin and she widened her stance, rubbing her cunt

against him, pushing her clit deeper into his mouth when he held it between his lips, driving his
tongue farther into the slick depths of her channel when he entered it.

Her scent and taste were intoxicating, a blend of the exotic. A potent aphrodisiac and instant

addiction made more compelling by the sounds that told him she was close to release.

His hand dropped to his cock, fingers clamping down on it through the material of his shorts.

He didn’t dare free himself for fear he wouldn’t be able to keep from fucking through his fisted
grip and coming.

A cry and the long, hard shuddering of Ianthe’s body marked her orgasm and had

satisfaction surging through him, an incredible rush of power that intensified as she went weak
with the force of it.

He caught her up in his arms. Carried her into his room and placed her on the bed.
The sight of her, legs splayed and arms open, looking at him through dark lashes as her

tongue darted out to wet sultry lips, had him stripping out of his clothing. Condom, the rational
part of his mind whispered, trying—despite what she’d said about it being safe—to compel him
to retrieve one from the nightstand drawer.

His cock fought to override the caution and the battle was decided with the touch of her

fingers to her slit, a stroking caress that left them wet before she brushed them along the
underside of her clit and over the tiny head.

He joined her on the bed, his knees on the mattress between her legs, his thighs widened

enough to provide a primitive display of engorged penis and the testicles hanging beneath.

She wet her lip again, hand leaving her mound to cup him, to weigh the heavy sac and leave

a trail of arousal as her fingers traveled from the base of his shaft to the exposed head before
encircling him.

His hips thrust reflexively. He couldn’t deny himself any longer. He wanted this, needed this,

without any barrier between them, though years of being careful forced the question out of him
even as he covered her with his body. “This is safe?”

“You won’t make me pregnant. You won’t catch anything from me.”
On a moan, he allowed her to guide him to her entrance, every muscle in his body rigid at

encountering slick folds and a tight, tight channel. He fought to give her only an inch at a time,
was determined not to slam into her and come within seconds of being fully embedded.

“Miguel,” she whispered, drawing his mouth to hers, and with it, some of his weight.
The press of his chest to luscious breasts turned their kiss into a hungry ravening. The feel

of her legs going around his waist sundered him from all ability to think.

It would have led to the wild pistoning of his hips, the rush to fevered orgasm. Except she

prevented it with the lock of thighs, turned what might have been over within a handful of thrusts
into something slow, into a taking that built with each surge forward and retreat, lips and bodies
remaining joined. Ecstasy intensifying until it crested, draining him of consciousness in the
searing release of oblivion.

Chapter Three

Ianthe hugged Miguel to her, his weight like a warm anchor holding her to this world. She

took the opportunity to explore the texture of his skin, the angles and planes of his physical
body.

Her fingers counted the vertebra of his spine, swept over and down, admiring the sleek

muscles of a physically fit man. Hers.

She’d felt the possessiveness earlier but now it was accompanied by tenderness,

protectiveness. Threat or urgent insistence might rouse him from the depths of sleep, but
otherwise he was hers to guard and keep safe.

She’d lost control again. In passion she’d fed deeply, survival instinct and primal drive

combining to ensure her female aspect was securely tethered to this mortal existence she’d
chosen. She would need to do the same in her male one. Craved it already.

Maneuvering Miguel onto his back, she followed him over, half covering him with her body.

She studied his face, ran her palm over his smooth chest, fingertips stopping to tease a tiny
brown nipple into hardening.

He murmured in his sleep and she leaned down to touch her mouth to his. She wanted him

again, but it was a desire to share pleasure rather than a requirement for sustenance.

Tomorrow would bring uncertainty, a new challenge. She could leave his side though she

wasn’t sure how far the familiar-bond would stretch. She would always know where he was,
and on some level, he would know the same about her.

Her eyebrows drew together as she studied him. He wore no jewelry, none of the talismans

and amulets witches were fond of. She looked around the bedroom but saw no altar, no
candles or bowls of incense, nothing that spoke of power or the wealth that often came from
wielding it. And yet he must be a witch.

Her attention returned to him. His masculine beauty tugged her lips into a smile though she

worried what would come with the morning.

She’d sidestepped his earlier questions. Hadn’t thought, when she was wholly demon, about

the necessity of being able to explain her presence or her existence.

She’d assumed her summoning would be intentional. Or if accidental, the male witch

triggering the spell would sense it happening. That he’d recognize her essence and be aware of
the familiar-bond, so remaining with him and talking openly about how she would “fit” into this
world, what she would do with her time, would occur naturally.

No such guarantee came with Miguel, and that thought sped her pulse, emphasizing the

erratic beat of her heart. She realized she was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

A wider range of emotions came with the human form, wired into the body and brain by

evolution. She didn’t like the uncertainty they created, the sense of not being in control. Always
before she had been when she came to this world, even when she served the demon lord,
seducing men and women she would not have chosen otherwise, sometimes engaging in sexual
acts she now felt repulsed by. She had always held the upper hand though she often allowed

her human partners to think otherwise.

A ripple of heat passed through her belly at remembering Miguel’s earlier words, the

determination she’d heard in his voice and read in his eyes, that he wouldn’t let her control him.
The way he’d taken possession of her body, drawing her essence and leaving her weak,
helpless in her pleasure, made her more than willing to submit to him, at least in her female
aspect.

Some part of him must understand what she was, causing him to recognize how easily she

wielded feminine power, how natural it was for her to use sexual enthrallment. Again she caught
herself worrying her bottom lip, thinking of the clothing and money she’d created at the edge of
the abyss. In less than three days they’d be gone, an illusion dissolved, yet she still needed all
the things a human did in order to survive—shelter, food and a way of paying for both.

Unwanted, unfathomable fear trickled in. She could use sex to gain those things, but she

didn’t want anyone to touch her except Miguel.

In the first instant of becoming aware of one another, a new-born conscience had exerted

itself along with pride. She’d both needed and allowed him to come to her, drawn by natural
desire, the physical attraction all humans experienced, rather than lust-manufactured.

The ability to seduce, to enthrall as both succubus and incubus, remained hers, of that she

was certain. But she was less certain of her will when it came to using her sexual nature to
compel him to ask her to live with him.

Fear threatened to gain a more pronounced hold on her at discovering this weakness, and

also knowing that she couldn’t allow him to cast her from his apartment or his everyday life in
the morning.

A knot formed in her stomach, accompanying the determination to do what she must in

order to remain here. It loosened with memories of the real hunger in his eyes, the pull of his
mouth on her nipples and clit, the feel of his tongue between her parted folds. He’d given her
pleasure, and she had done the same for him.

She snuggled against Miguel, stroking downward, palm coming to rest on his abdomen. His

cock stirred, hardened, reaching for her, and she regretted the loss of control that had led to
her feeding so deeply and plunging him into sleep.

Tomorrow would be different. She would have more control.
He was all she needed. And she, in turn, could be everything he desired, a lover who could

satisfy him both as a woman and a man.

Her clit became engorged, the hood pulling back so the small head was naked and exposed.

She pressed it against his thigh, rubbed, lust rippling through her and bringing with it the intense
need to have Miguel put his hands and mouth on her masculine aspect, to pleasure and find
pleasure in it.

Tomorrow, she promised herself, uncomfortable anxiety returning to coil through her chest

and twine around her heart like a dark serpent. Unless she found evidence Miguel was a witch,
or he gave her some indication he might readily accept what she was, there would have to be
another lie between them. She would have to be someone else, her male aspect a separate
entity in his mind until it was safe to reveal the truth—until she was sure he would accept it and
her.

Fear of rejection tried to sink its fangs into her, but she denied that poison. I’m here now.

That’s the important thing.

She closed her eyes, banishing everything from her mind beyond the sensation of lying with

him. The feel of his skin to hers. The warmth of the evening sun streaking through the window
to bathe the room in natural light. Miguel’s scent and what lingered in the air from their
lovemaking.

Heat and hope tugged at her, slipped along the length of the familiar-bond and slowly

burned away the dark serpent of doubt when it came to a future with him. He was her one
chance to be something other than demon. She had to believe his touching the medallion was
more than an accident. It was fate. Hers as well as his.

* * * * *

Miguel struggled against the dark-whirlpool beginning of a dawn dream that wasn’t a dream.

He knew it was useless, but he still fought against the soul-travel, his heart becoming a
thundering surf in his ears, his breath catching lest he drown as he was pulled into the deep
water of a phantom pool.

He emerged from it on a small island, one of several in an endless expanse of water,

soaking wet and wondering if his physical body was now coated with sweat. If he was hard, his
cock thick and rigid along his belly as it was in this weird, alternate reality.

“This is Apan, the Water Place. It’s the Great Sea of the East,” his tatarabuelo said. “It’s

good to start from here today.”

His great-great-grandfather turned toward him, a fierce frown settling on his face as he

glanced down then away. “You’ve gone and done it now. Until you’ve sorted things out in the
living world, it’s too dangerous for you to come here. I won’t call you again. You’ll have to find
me when you need me.”

Miguel felt relief as well as embarrassment. He checked to ensure his cock wasn’t in full

view, only to have heat crawl up his neck and flame through his face at seeing the sparkling,
sapphire-blue cord wrapped around his waist and disappearing into his pants as though it was
attached to his dick.

The color of it matched Ianthe’s eyes and the threads appeared real, stretching back to

where he lay with her on the bed. He fought the urge to touch the cord but lost the battle.

Desire nearly dropped him to his knees. Lust was a sharp, demanding tug and he gladly

yielded to it, plunging into the eye of the whirlpool as his tatarabuelo’s words followed him, slow
and thick, as if traveling through the water. “Your woman is more than she seems. You need to
keep her with you. Keep her close.”

I will. Sleeping thought and waking one merging as he opened his eyes to see Ianthe

snuggled against him, her thigh holding his hard cock to his belly, her hand on its wet tip and her
hair a soft blanket spread across his chest.

He smiled, for once not cursing the weirdness that had become part of his life because of

the trip to Mexico. The sapphire-colored cord and his tatarabuelo’s words were just a
confirmation of what he’d felt yesterday when she’d stepped into Conner’s backyard, at what
he felt now when he looked at her. She felt right. Like the one he’d been waiting for, the one
who’d kept him from settling on another.

He doubted he’d ever share the rune reading he’d been forced to accept while working on a

case shortly before going to Mexico with anyone except Ianthe, but Madam Fontaine’s
pronouncements had come true. Storm wasn’t for him. And though he hadn’t found Ianthe in the

darkness, he’d found confirmation of a bond between them in Talocan, a world ruled by lords of
darkness.

Ianthe’s eyelashes fluttered, lifted. He grunted in protest when her hand moved. Inhaled

sharply when fingers found his nipple, circling, making his cock jerk against her thigh.

He rolled, lips claiming hers, swallowing the soft sound of pleasure she made as he found

her opening, already slick with arousal. He thrust inside, both of them moaning at the exquisite
sensation.

Thought ceased as he slid in and out of her. Not returning until her channel clamped down on

him in release, her hips lifting off the mattress and driving him deep as he came in a white flash
of ecstasy.

He collapsed on top of her but she wouldn’t let him redistribute his weight. Arms encircled

him, hands gliding along his spine as sleek legs held him in place between feminine thighs.

“I dreamed of you,” she murmured against his lips. “The fantasy wasn’t nearly as good as

the reality.”

He grinned, glad he could contain the impulse to crow like a rooster. “You were part of my

dream too.”

Would she think he was nuts if he told her about Mexico? That he actually believed his spirit

traveled to the underworld of Talocan?

She nibbled on his bottom lip, took it between hers and sucked, sending a flash of heat

straight to his cock. He bucked, and her channel tightened on his shaft, coaxing it to begin
swelling and firming again.

Her hands paused at the base of his spine, fingers exploring the little indentation there

before moving lower to his buttocks. “I was worried you might prefer blondes.”

“You cured me of that fascination.”
“Even when it comes to men?”
“What?” Instant denial, despite the internal voice saying, She knows. She senses the truth.
“You haven’t ever been with another man?”
“Fuck no!”
He wondered if she heard panic in his voice, or sensed the fear skittering through him at

how easily she’d picked up on suppressed desire and peeled away barriers erected in
childhood and maintained in adulthood.

“Fuck no,” he repeated, rolling off her because the face-to-face contact was suddenly too

intimate, too revealing. He wasn’t about to ask her why she’d assumed he’d been with another
man.

Dios. He—
Work interrupted, the cell’s ringtone announcing a callout, a dead body and a crime scene

waiting for him. It felt as if he’d been thrown a lifeline. He sat up and leaned over, snagging his
shorts and fishing his phone out of a pocket. “Torres.”

“Report to Diamond Beach. Gunshot victim. Young male Hispanic. Wilson from the coroner’s

office is in transit.”

“What about Conner?”
“Already notified and also in transit.”
“Thanks.” Miguel hung up. He turned, daring to look at Ianthe.

She hadn’t bothered to pull the covers up and yet the display wasn’t an attempt at seduction

or an irritated show of what he’d be missing if he left. She was just at ease with her body,
unselfconscious and uninhibited, though he read worry in the way her bottom lip was captured
between her teeth.

No way was he returning to her assumption he was bisexual, but the vulnerability he saw

tugged at his heartstrings. He touched his mouth to hers, his tongue caressing her bottom lip.
The guys were going to have a field day with this, and if he came home to find his apartment
stripped of anything valuable, the jokes at his expense would never end.

Keep her close. Keep her with you. A throb of fierce need went through him. Keeping her

naked and underneath him could easily become his life’s obsession.

“I have to leave,” he said against her mouth. “I’ll try to swing by for lunch but I can’t promise

I’ll make it. Be here when I get back tonight?”

“Yes. Or soon after.”
“Okay.” He deepened the kiss, his tongue thrusting, rubbing against hers until the urgency to

get to the crime scene finally afforded him the will to pull away and stand.

He took a quick shower, blasting himself with cold water though the effect of it disappeared

as soon as he stepped back into the bedroom. He hardened again at the feel of her gaze on
him as he dressed.

A tension he hadn’t been aware of melted at seeing the way her mouth pursed and her

eyebrows drew together in a concerned frown when he put on the shoulder harness with the
9mm in it. Definitely not a badge bunny. The ones he’d known got turned on by the sight of him
wearing the rig.

He crossed to her for a final kiss. “See you later. There’s a spare apartment key in the

cookie jar on the counter.” His madre’s habit, the black-and-white ceramic cow a gift she’d
brought when she came by the apartment loaded with things she’d cooked to make sure her
son was eating well.

Ianthe laughed, husky undertones though her voice held genuine amusement. He imagined

he could taste the sweetness of it on her lips as he claimed her mouth again before forcing
himself to leave the bedroom.

Her eyes lingered on the doorway, the room suddenly seeming empty without him. And then

the apartment did as well when the front door opened and closed.

She felt the familiar-bond stretch between them, knew when he drove away by a rapid

increase in the sense of distance. She touched the place where her human heart beat beneath
her breast, rubbed in a small, circular motion as she thought of the worry she’d felt in those
moments before he woke, the sense he was in danger, as if a part of his soul was in a place
where harm could come to it.

Now she worried for his physical well-being. The sight of the gun had made what he did for

a living real.

Outside, the day had arrived and she was anxious to greet it. Life awaited her—human life,

her life, the mortality she’d craved.

She stretched, enjoying the feel of the bedding against her skin before rising and following

Miguel’s example by getting into the shower. Pleasure surged at the stream of hot water
striking her skin. She luxuriated in it, lathering her hands and stroking them over her breasts,
pausing to grasp softened nipples and turn them into hardened points with the squeeze of her

fingers and memories of Miguel sucking, biting, his lips feasting on them.

Her channel clenched and her clit stiffened, demanding attention. She held off, pulling and

tugging and twisting dark areolas, sending streaks of fire from them to her cunt, heightening the
need, though as her clit became more engorged, the temptation to change into her male aspect
grew as well.

A low moan escaped at imagining a masculine hand sliding up and down on a thickened

shaft, delivering nearly unbearable sensation and creating a merciless, clawing desire for
release and the exquisite ecstasy that came with the hot rush of semen. She fought against
giving in to the urge, delaying the change of form. Self-pleasure alone wouldn’t provide enough
sustenance for her male aspect, and Miguel might not be home until well into the evening.

A shiver went through her, in anticipation of meeting Miguel all over again as a man. But

there was uncertainty too.

She slid a hand downward over her belly. Fingers settled on her clit for comfort and relief.

Stroking. Circling the hardened knob. Slipping lower to thrust into her channel, the rhythm
increasing, matching the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the sound of panted breaths lost in the
pounding spray of the shower.

Her cry was sharp, marking the white-hot flash that suffused her body, real in a way it had

never been before. Making her linger beneath the heated blast of water and savor what she’d
gained in trading one type of enslavement for another. Pleasure beyond any she’d known
before.

Miguel could command her if he desired it. His will would dominate if he applied it. But

despite the familiar-bond giving him the ultimate control, it still felt like freedom to her.

His soul was a shiny thing lacking darkness. It was threaded through with honor and duty,

with love for his friends and family.

Longing filled her, the need to be close to him. She wasn’t sure how much of it came from

being his familiar, and how much of it was rooted in being human, mortal.

Finally turning off the water, she left the shower, selecting the towel he’d used rather than a

fresh one, as if in touching it to her body she would exchange the water there for his scent. She
dried skin and hair before returning to the bedroom, and though she would have been
completely comfortable remaining naked, the desire for closeness sent her to his closet.

She shuffled through his shirts, chose a soft blue one and put it on, leaving the buttons

undone. Curiosity came then, bringing with it more conflicting emotion. No wonder humans built
up so many internal defenses.

Her gaze swept the closet floor and then the shelf running above the clothes bar, looking for

the makings of an altar, for the ceremonial tools of a witch, but finding nothing other than shoes
and random sports equipment in one place and a collection of trophies in the other. Standing on
tiptoe, she pulled a small, cheaply made trophy from the shelf. The gold plating was chipped in
places, the inscription dulled by scratches accumulated over time. But she could still read
Miguel’s name and that he’d played on a victorious baseball team, in a division made up of
children eight through ten years old.

She smiled at imagining Miguel as a young boy. Felt the blossoming of liquid warmth in her

chest at imagining the two of them having a son, a child they took to baseball games and then
one day watched play in them.

Putting the trophy back, she selected another, this one with a golden boy kicking a soccer

ball. Her curiosity deepened when she read the name on it. Julio Sanchez.

A relative? A lover, despite Miguel’s denial of having been with someone of the same sex?
The discovery led to additional exploration yet no answers. Most of the trophies belonged to

Miguel, but more than a few of them had been awarded to Julio, begging the question as to
why the glories from another man’s boyhood were here, in this apartment.

Ianthe turned away from the closet. Her gaze glanced over his dresser, unwelcome

conscience not allowing it to settle there though her curiosity about Miguel was far from
satisfied. She returned to the bed and sat, fingertips tracing the edge of the nightstand.

Guilt crept in. She clenched her jaw, hating the feeling of it and wondering if these emotions

assaulted her because the familiar-bond made her will subservient to Miguel’s and his essence
was woven through with honor, or if the same wellspring that had fed her longing for mortality
had hidden the weakness of conscience within it.

She had not counted on that, on feeling guilt or worry or any number of the emotions that

had come since stepping from the abyss. This world was full of dark-souled humans who felt no
remorse, men and women who worshipped only wealth and power. She’d lain with plenty of
them, fed from them when she was demon and served a demon lord.

Was she to have no real free will here? Was she to be constantly assailed, hemmed in by

rules not of her own making, by unwelcome, uncomfortable emotion?

In defiance she opened the nightstand drawer, only to have her lips pull back in a jealous

snarl at the sight of a skin magazine with a big-breasted blonde on the cover. Had he bought it
in order to fantasize about Storm?

This is his past, she reminded herself, reliving those moments at the party when she and

Miguel had stood among a group that included Storm and the fey she was bound to. There’d
been no longing in the glances Miguel sent in the other woman’s direction, no sexual hunger.

His desire now belonged to her. She had only to remember the look in his eyes, the heat in

his voice and hands and cock, the pleasure they’d shared.

Jealousy fell away, confidence permanently silencing its voice. She’d needed no

enthrallment to draw him to her, nor had any been required in order to remain with him. He’d
asked her to be here when he came home.

She turned her attention to the items in the drawer. Along with the magazines there were

several boxes of condoms and a bottle of lubricant. For anal penetration, she guessed. Given
how wet she’d become it was unfathomable that his previous lovers would require anything
other than arousal in order to accommodate his cock.

She picked up the small stack of magazines, flipped through them, eyebrows drawing

together at the puzzle Miguel presented, his vehement Fuck no! ringing in her ears. Did he not
even actively fantasize about being with a male lover?

Uneasiness returned, completely eradicating the voice of conscience and nearly flaring into

panic when, after searching through his apartment, she’d still found no evidence of his being
either a witch or a bisexual man.

She forced herself to calm. Closing her eyes, she mentally returned to the day of her first

summoning.

Chanting rang in her ears, the archaic words like razorblades applied to skin. The smell of

burning candles filled her nostrils, the wax mixed with bone dust and blood.

Instinct made her test the boundaries of the circle and the feel of salt-enforced wards

brought pain, a hissed promise of retribution as she took form, choosing a visage similar to

that of the lord she called master. Talons and elongated face, horns and a tail, done to project
power beyond what she actually had, to strike terror in the heart of the mage who’d pulled her
from the dark realms.

She wanted to gain an advantage when it came to bargaining, and it worked. She was sure

it worked.

The mage was knowledgeable enough to call her and hold her in his circle. He was no fool

to leave himself at risk when she was willing to forgo vengeance. The spell he laid along with
the one binding her to the medallion felt right to her.

Abandoning the memory, she opened her eyes and swept the living room with her gaze.

Perhaps Miguel was a blood witch, born possessing the natural ability but not practicing the
craft.

It was a reasonable assumption, given the location and time period. Use of witchcraft was

no longer either common or widespread.

She worried her bottom lip, caught herself doing it but didn’t desist as she wondered what

Miguel might know of familiar-bonds and supernatural entities. How he might react at her
revealing what she’d once been.

The skittering beat of her heart was like a stone skipped over water and threatening to sink

downward under the heavy burden of fear. She fought off the sensation, reminding herself of
the Were, Khemirra. Her mate Conner had come to believe, come to accept, because despite
what he’d said when held captive by Scholes, Ianthe had read the lie in him. He hadn’t known
Khemirra was a werewolf then. But she knew with certainty he did now, since she’d been
present when he learned the truth.

She trailed her fingers down the edges of Miguel’s open shirt. Miguel would come to accept

too, she had to believe that. He’d invited her into his bed of his own free will.

Touching her clit, she rubbed tiny circles over the exposed head, drawing blood to the small

organ so it grew swollen. She clamped it between her first two fingers and thumb, using the
grip to pump pleasure through her labia.

Relief from the worry came, even as need built to find release in this aspect, to find release

in her other one. Confidence returned along with her earlier anticipation. She was right for
Miguel. She could be what he desired, she could give him the things he craved, answer the
hungers of his body and heart. She could satisfy him in a way no other could. She preferred the
female form, so it would be no hardship to remain in it most of the time and assume her
masculine one only when necessary or desired.

Nothing had changed, except perhaps that first Miguel would need to accept the truth of his

sexuality. Where she hadn’t consciously seduced him as Ianthe, it might be required of her as…

Ian.
A brother? A cousin?
Worry tried to intrude, guilt over what Miguel might consider a lie between them. “There’s no

other way,” she said out loud, speech freeing her from unwelcome conscience.

She stopped touching herself, preferring to wait until it was Miguel who brought her to

orgasm. Her eyes settled on the clothing and sandals discarded in passion the day before. Her
nose wrinkled in distaste at the thought of wearing the shorts and shirt against her skin, but she
moved toward them, each stride a firm declaration that she wasn’t afraid of what the future
held.

Picking them up, she remembered the promise she’d given Miguel to soothe the tension

between them, that she’d seek Khemirra out and offer an apology as a way of setting things to
right, so there was no strain between Miguel and Conner. She’d do it this morning, after she’d
fed her physical body.

She’d go while Conner was absent. Take a cab and arrive unannounced since she didn’t

know the phone number but had memorized the street address. She’d make peace with the
Were, perhaps even find the possibility of friendship.

* * * * *

Miguel parked his truck next to a black-and-white unit, taking a visual of the area as he got

out. There were no fishing piers or yacht clubs, no houses nearby, making it seem like a remote
stretch of beach, though that’d change in a few hours.

Right now everything was shut down tight, but during business hours the strip of shops

facing the ocean sold everything from t-shirts and tourist junk to surfboards and food. Most had
bars on the windows and a couple had obvious security cameras. They might get a break when
they followed up later; criminals did some stupid things. But he knew from experience that
sometimes the cameras were for show only, and given the angle of those he saw, unless the
victim and his killer had stopped to do some window shopping before hitting the beach, he didn’t
hold out much hope of there being a useful picture.

A couple of blocks to the right most of the real estate was dedicated to rental houses, low-

end because the neighborhood bordered a rougher section of town, one in which he’d already
worked a couple of murder cases. In the other direction were hotels, going from cheap, some
of them known to rent rooms by the hour instead of the day, to expensive as they worked their
way up the coast.

He wouldn’t be surprised if this turned out to be a gang-related shooting. No city was

exempt from them anymore, and there were times when it seemed Florida had more than its
share, given proximity to the ocean and the lure of easy cash associated with smuggling.

The coroner’s van was the only vehicle on the beach. He could see Wilson crouched next to

the body.

Good. They might just be out of here before they drew a crowd of spectators. When it

came to blood and gore, he’d reached the inevitable conclusion that people more often
resembled flies than not. They came to feed their curiosity, their need to take pictures or have
something to talk about, and the vast majority of them didn’t give a second thought to the
misery and devastation the scene represented.

He was relatively new to Homicide, but not to the sight of death. Dios, he hoped he never

got used to seeing a dead kid because that would mean he was shutting down emotionally.
Caring about getting answers for the victims’ families and finding those responsible were what
drove him, part of why he was a cop in the first place. Even when the victims were
gangbangers there was always a sense of waste, of a life cut short, of a lost opportunity to
turn things around and make that life mean something.

Conner’s approach had Miguel waiting for his partner to pull in next to the truck and get out

of his car. “Guess this is our welcome back,” Conner said. “And here I thought maybe we’d
have a few days to catch up on paperwork.”

“Yeah, right. You enjoy that the same way you do abstinence.”

“Speaking of which, how’d you leave it with—”
Conner stopped short of saying the name. How the fuck was he supposed to carry on like

normal, knowing…what? And that was part of the fucking problem. Khemirra couldn’t tell him
exactly what Ianthe was, except seemingly one hundred percent human now, where she’d been
totally nonhuman the last time he’d encountered her.

He bit off a round of cursing. If there was ever a reason to really hate anything to do with

the supernatural…

Don’t interfere, his soon-to-be wife—werewolf wife—had told him. It was like coiling steel

around his chest and pulling both ends so tight he could barely breathe.

Son of a bitch. Miguel was his partner. They had each other’s backs.
He forced himself to exhale slowly. If there was consolation to be had, it was in knowing

that being hooked up with someone not totally human hadn’t turned out badly—not for him, and
not for Trace, and not for Storm.

“Ianthe still at your place?” he asked, not able to completely leave it alone but managing to

sound normal.

“Yeah.”
“She tell you anything about herself?”
“We didn’t do a lot of talking.”
The answer made him laugh. He couldn’t help himself. He’d had the same problem when he

finally caught up with Khemirra, despite his being determined to get answers from her.

He rolled his shoulders, finding a bit of humor in remembering just how often he kidded

Miguel, telling him he was like a guy walking around carrying a ball and chain in his arms,
desperate to engrave some woman’s name on it before attaching it to his ankle—or more
accurately, his dick. Cutting a look in Miguel’s direction, he saw the fucked-silly smile on his
partner’s face. Okay. He could stay out of it; let this thing with Ianthe play out if she treated
Miguel right. But one wrong move on her part, and there was going to be hell to pay.

They drew closer to the scene. “What do you know about this?" Miguel asked.
“Probably not much more than you. Early morning jogger found the body. A couple of blocks

from here there was a report of gunfire at a little after four this morning. The responding unit
didn’t find anything, but reports of gunfire aren’t exactly uncommon in that neighborhood. There
were at least three last week.”

Miguel shook his head. Guns and teens didn’t mix well. A lot of time guns and adults were a

dangerous combination. But throw in hormones and a legal system that either made young
criminals worse by associating them with hardened ones, or taught them they could get away
with a wide variety of crimes because of their ages, and you had a problem that only got bigger
with each new generation.

“Fuck.”
Conner laughed. “Your little head thinking about Ianthe? Or is your big one thinking about

starting your first day back from vacation like this?”

“Thinking about kids and crime.”
“Yeah. The system is totally screwed. Your turn to keep the murder book.”
“No problem.”
They reached the tape marking off a small area. No point in making it huge; a glance told

the story. The victim had either been walking in the surf, or close enough to it that high tide had
come in, scrubbing the sand clean all around the body. There wasn’t a single numbered marker
signifying that something of interest had been discovered.

A cop with a clipboard noted their arrival. Miguel lifted the tape. He and Conner both ducked

under it.

“Anything?” Miguel asked Wilson, steeling himself to look not just at the gore-and-blood-

saturated shirt, but at the victim’s face. Dios. The kid looked young.

“Took four in the chest, close range, any one of which would probably have done the job.”
Miguel pulled a notepad from his pocket. “Meaning it’s personal.”
“Could be. That’s for you guys to figure out. Has a club stamp on his right hand. I don’t

recognize it, but then the clubs like to keep things interesting for us by switching them up.”

Miguel inventoried the kid’s clothes. Jeans and a button-down shirt. “He’s not dressed like a

gangbanger. Time of death?”

“Somewhere between two and five.”
Bracketing the time Conner had said there was a report of gunfire. “ID?”
“Not in his front pockets. Only a handful of change there. I’m ready to turn him.”
“Cell phone?” Conner asked.
“Not yet.”
Wilson nodded to his assistant and between them they rolled the victim onto his side. “Three

obvious exit wounds but that’s no guaranteed one of them didn’t double up.” He patted a back
pocket, confirmed its appearance. “Empty.” Then moved on, pulling a wallet from the other.

“Still no phone,” Conner said. “How often you see a kid today without one?”
Almost never, Miguel thought.
Wilson opened the wallet. “Cash, twenty-three dollars. School ID card, issued a few years

back.” He shook his head. “Kids never change. Fake ID. Bogus name, probably bogus address,
but good enough to get him into a club selling alcohol if the bouncer isn’t looking real hard to
prevent it. Bona fide driver’s license issued by the DMV. Kid only just turned eighteen. Ricardo
Esteban Moreno.”

He passed the wallet and ID to Conner, who said, “Address on the school ID is different

from the one on the driver’s license.”

“Could be the one is his parents’ address,” Miguel said. “And the other where he’s living

now.”

“That’d be my guess.” Conner read them both off.
“Neither is close to here.”
“Makes identifying the club stamp a priority.”
They both crouched, pulling their cell phones. Without being asked, Wilson lifted the teen’s

hand.

Capturing the image, Conner asked, “When do think he’s going to hit the autopsy table?”
“Don’t know. Got to check the reservations. We’ve been booked pretty solid.”
“Popular destination.”
“Only problem is that getting there is a one-way ticket for most of our guests. Unless you

guys want an extended visitation here, I’m ready to take the body.”

Miguel pocketed his phone and stood. He found Turner, from the Crime Scene Unit, already

packing up. “You guys get anything?”

“Nope. What you see is what there is. A DB. We didn’t find any casings. Might have been

taken by the shooter, might have washed out, might be buried in sand though I’m not betting on
it. I’m leaving Liu behind to sweep with the metal detector. He’s already covered the area out to
about fifteen feet. Judging by wounds, I’m guessing the shooter wasn’t farther away than that,
and was probably closer.”

Miguel marked the distance mentally. “Looking more and more like this was personal.”
“Not my call, but I’d tend to agree. I’ll drop the photos on your desk this morning unless I get

another callout.”

“Thanks.” Miguel glanced at Conner. He was just pulling his phone away from his mouth.

“Next of kin?”

“Yeah. The address on the school ID is still good for the parents. Juan and Estelle Moreno.”
“We might catch them before they head out to work.” And shatter their lives. He took a

deep breath and exhaled slowly. Dios, he hated this part of the job.

Conner pocketed his phone and the small notebook he carried. “Might as well get it over

with.”

Chapter Four

“You want me to wait?” the cab driver asked as he pocketed the money Ianthe had already

paid him.

She noted the Jeep in the driveway and assumed the werewolf’s mate didn’t have two

vehicles. Her palms were suddenly damp, her heart fluttering uncomfortably in her chest.

“No,” she said, leaving the car and walking slowly toward the front door. She reminded

herself that Khemirra had turned into an unexpected ally the day before, but even as she told
herself that, she was intensely aware of her own mortality. Not that she expected the Were to
shift form and rip her throat out, not here on the front stoop or in the house, but her last image
before being cast into the abyss was of a black wolf lunging for a bared throat.

Straightening her spine, she rang the bell. A moment later Khemirra opened the door.
The Were stepped back, expression fierce and the wolf visible in her eyes. “You might as

well come in.”

Ianthe entered, following Khemirra to a room done in tones of brown and gold, the furniture

sporting thick cushions and the wall, a huge, flat television. She took a seat on the sofa, a
coffee table separating her from the Were as Khemirra claimed a chair.

Guilt crept in—undeserved, but coming all the same as she remembered Khemirra’s

screams, her human form curled into a ball as the cattle prod was touched to her skin, her
trembling afterward, the tears streaming down her face.

“I had no choice, but I am sorry all the same.” The words came easily and left Ianthe as

truth.

Khemirra gave a small, sharp nod, suppressing the wolf’s urge to rip Miguel’s supposed

mate apart. Intellectually she understood Ianthe’s lack of free choice and accepted the apology,
but the wolf had a hard time letting it go, not so much because of the remembered physical
pain, but at the anguish Conner had experienced because of it.

“I figured that out when I saw the way Scholes touched the medallion anytime he gave you

an order. It’s the only reason you’re here right now and the only reason a half-dozen cops didn’t
tackle Miguel while another half dozen got you the hell away from him when I realized who you
were yesterday.”

There was a growl in her voice she couldn’t quite prevent, and Ianthe’s expression revealed

her fight not to react to the threat. She succeeded, asked in a calm voice, “Did you kill Armand
Scholes?”

Khemirra’s lips pulled back in a grimace rather than a snarl. “No.” But damn it’d been a close

call and she couldn’t be certain she wouldn’t have if she hadn’t been afraid it would cost her
Conner.

“He’s free?” The promise of retribution burned in Ianthe’s eyes and the sight of it diminished

the wolf’s animosity toward her.

“No. He’s locked up nice and tight. He’ll stay that way, either in a jail cell or a psychiatric

unit.”

“Imprisoned.” It seemed almost as though Ianthe tasted the word before smiling over it.
Khemirra inhaled deeply but the wolf found what it had the day before. “What are you?”
“I am what I smell like. Human and bonded to Miguel.” Ianthe offered a smile, both

challenging and conciliatory at the same time. “What I once was is no longer important. My past
is behind me. All I care about now is remaining with Miguel and finding my place in this world.”

She stood, as if having made her apology, she intended to leave. Khemirra noted what she

was wearing then, the same thing she’d had on the day before. The jury was out on whether or
not they were going to be friends, and despite telling Conner not to interfere, she still intended
to go see Seraphine, the witch Aislinn knew, for a read on the medallion, but she found herself
saying, “I take it you’re without money and possessions.”

“I am not without money.” To prove the point, Ianthe pulled a wad of bills from her pocket.
Habit made Khemirra sniff. There was no smell on the bills other than Ianthe’s, not even ink

or paper.

Khemirra sighed as she imagined Treasury agents swooping in and hauling Ianthe off to jail

for passing counterfeit bills. It didn’t help knowing she carried no small measure of blame for
Ianthe being in Miguel’s life. “Is the money real?”

“Yes, for another couple of days.”
Khemirra didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. If she’d been prone to headaches, one

would be pounding behind her eyes right now. She could guess the answer but she still asked
the question. “What happens after a couple of days?”

“The bills will vanish.”
Better than turning into dry leaves as fey money was supposed to do. “So anyone you’ve

passed the money off to will end up with nothing, their goods and services stolen—and in the
case of some unlucky clerk, their job in jeopardy.”

Color tinged Ianthe’s cheeks. Guilt flashed into her expression, not the alarm of someone

caught doing something they knew was wrong, but more like conscience awakened.

Khemirra felt better about the situation at seeing it. Not willing, yet, to extend the hand of

friendship and all that, but a hell of a lot closer to doing so. Though the burden of responsibility
over this had just spiraled in a different direction. She stood. “You need clothes. I’ll give you
some money and take you shopping.”

Ianthe’s gaze flicked in the direction of the front door. “I paid the cab driver twenty-three

dollars.”

The admission softened Khemirra further. “A twenty and three ones?”
“Four fives and three ones.”
A second sigh escaped. “It’s too late to undo it. But in the big picture, that’s not too bad. As

much as I hate to say it, hopefully he’ll end up making change and the bills will disappear from
someone’s pocket instead of a cash register.”

Ianthe’s gaze was guileless and direct. “Thank you.”
Khemirra nearly cringed as her own conscience struck. Don’t thank me yet. I’m still going to

talk to the witch to make sure you shouldn’t be exorcised and sent back to where I suspect
you came from.

* * * * *

Conner pulled his car to the curb and Miguel rolled in behind him, parking and getting out of

the truck to stand in front of a stucco house painted a light green. The yard was well
maintained. It was a nice place in a nice neighborhood; one still free of a lot of gang activity,
though he’d spotted a couple of new tags and would be making a point to see they were
removed ASAP.

He was highly prejudiced when it came to this area. His parents’ house was less than a mile

away. Not far from their place, a couple of his siblings had set up and started to procreate,
making him an uncle four times. He’d grown up here, his memories almost all good, even the
ones with his cousin Julio in them.

Especially those, the voice he tried to keep silenced said, stirring his cock with memories of

the times he’d slipped away to spy on Julio when he was with Leon. Bringing renewed panic on
the heels of Ianthe’s assumption he was bisexual.

“You coming?” Conner asked, making Miguel realize he’d stopped walking. “Or are you

trying to figure out how to sneak away and grab one of your mother’s breakfast burritos?
’Cause if that’s the case, I’m offended though I can understand your jealously. The last time I
was there she said I was welcome any time since I’ve become another big brother helping to
keep the baby of the family safe.”

Miguel welcomed the familiar teasing as he caught up to Conner. “Shit. You’re never going

to let me forget that are you?”

Conner grinned. “Not until someone in my family says something embarrassing enough to

trade silence for silence.”

They approached the front door together, both of them tugging on jackets to hide their guns

and present a professional appearance. It wouldn’t hide what they were or the reason for the
visit. The family would know as soon as they opened the door that something bad had
happened. They always did.

Not once had they been mistaken for Mormons on a mission or Jehovah’s Witnesses. Hell,

they hadn’t even been treated like bankers delivering foreclosure notices.

Miguel pressed the doorbell. A teenage girl answered, a pink iPod in her hand and matching

buds in her ears. She stiffened when she saw them standing there, tugged at a thin wire so one
earphone popped out.

“Are your parents here?” Miguel asked.
“Mama! It’s the police.”
Miguel pulled his badge case out and opened it to display his shield. Next to him, Conner did

the same, saying, “Okay if we come inside?”

The girl stepped out of the way. They entered and were joined a moment later by a man in

his mid-forties dressed in a suit and a woman about the same age wearing a blouse and
slacks.

Her hand went to her throat. “Ricardo?” It was little more than a whisper, and accompanied

by a look of anger directed at the man.

“Juan and Estelle Moreno?” Miguel asked.
Both the man and the woman nodded.
Conner indicated the living room furniture with a hand gesture. “Why don’t we take a seat?”
The man’s posture was ramrod straight, his face closed up tight. Miguel wouldn’t have been

surprised if he’d refused, demanding they state their business and leave, but he went, sitting on
the edge of the couch in a clear indication he wasn’t staying long.

“I’m Detective Torres. My partner is Detective Stern. There’s no easy way to tell you this.

We work Homicide. A teen was found on the beach this morning. Based on the identification he
carried, we believe he was your son, Ricardo.”

The woman wailed, crossing herself with a trembling hand before pressing it to her lips, her

torso rocking back and forth. The man stood, hands balled into fists at his sides. “I’m going to
my job.”

He stormed from the living room, making Miguel think of a bull charging a matador’s cape. A

door slammed. The girl joined the mother on the couch and was pulled into a hug with a torrent
of Spanish.

Conner glanced at Miguel. He shook his head to indicate the words didn’t need to be

translated. They were expressions of grief, prayers to the Virgin Mary.

They didn’t rush her, didn’t try to ask any questions until she regained enough control of her

emotions to answer them. On a shuddering breath, she looked in the direction of the front door,
signaling her readiness to talk by saying, “He couldn’t accept. And Ricardo… Ricardo
wouldn’t…”

She began praying again, fervently, though Miguel couldn’t make out the words. “Ricardo

wouldn’t what?”

The girl, probably Ricardo’s sister, said, “Hide that he was gay.”
“Ricardo was your brother?”
The girl nodded. “I’m Alicia.”
She glowered in the direction of the front door. “My father kicked him out of the house when

he was fifteen. He said if Ricky wanted to be a fag, then he could go live with fags.”

Anger to match the girl’s became a fist around Miguel’s heart, a burning in his gut

accompanied by an echo of harsh words and the heated arguments between his uncle and
cousin that had taken place in a home a short distance from this one, after Julio came out about
being gay. “Where’d Ricky go?”

“Friends at first, staying on their couch, but then…” She glanced at her mother as if for

permission to continue.

Her mother said, “He disappeared. I put money aside, grocery money so Juan wouldn’t

know how I spent it. When I had enough, I hired someone to look for Ricky. Mr. Garcia. He
found Ricky high on drugs in Miami. Sleeping somewhere different each night.”

The shame in her voice and expression filled the story out. Miguel voiced the question, on

the off-chance Ricky didn’t have a police record. “He was prostituting himself?”

She nodded in response, eyes lowered.
“Have you seen Ricky since he left your home?”
She didn’t look up as she said, “I went to Miami on a day I knew Juan had to work late. I sat

in my car outside of one of the bars Mr. Garcia had seen Ricky hanging around. I waited with
my doors locked, for Ricky to come so I could talk to him. But when he did, a man old enough
to be his father approached him, and they went away together. When he returned, I spoke to
him. I told him to come back. I told him that each week I would put away money, to help him so
he didn’t need to take drugs or live the way he was living.”

She sobbed, the rawness of it making Miguel want to look away. “But Ricky didn’t take you

up on your offer.”

“There was so much bad feeling between him and his father. And shame at what he knew

I’d seen him doing. And anger. For not telling him it was okay to be with men instead of women.
For not taking his side against Juan.”

She covered her face with her hands and wept. Alicia said, “Mama had Mr. Garcia look for

Ricky again last year. He was back here living on the streets, in shelters, still an addict. Then
maybe six months ago I saw someone who looked like him going into that gay teen outreach
place on Godwin Street.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t be sure it was him but a month ago he
came into the Pizza Hut where I work. He was with friends. He didn’t recognize me, or he
pretended not to. He looked okay. Not like a junkie. When he left I ran out to the parking lot and
stopped him. He said he was done with drugs and living on the street. He said he’d found
someone who loved him. I asked him to come see Mama, to show her he was okay. He said
no, he wouldn’t come back here because nothing had changed. He was still gay.”

“Did you recognize any of his friends?”
“No.”
“Could you tell if one of them was his boyfriend?”
“No. There was nothing obvious. He didn’t mention any names. He didn’t tell me anything

except what I just told you.”

In all likelihood they were going to find the boyfriend at the address listed on Ricky’s driver’s

license. Miguel glanced at Conner to see if he had anything else to ask. A small shake of his
head indicated he didn’t.

They left a few minutes later. On the walkway, Miguel said, “Four in the chest could be a

bad breakup.”

“Or a jealous boyfriend. Want to swing by the station, trade the personal vehicles for a

sedan before we head to Sheridan Street?”

“Let’s share a ride after we take our lunch break. I’m going to eat at my place.”
Conner smirked. “Yeah, and I can just guess what you’ll be eating. Maybe I’ll go home and

have the same thing if I’m lucky enough to find Khemirra there.”

Miguel didn’t laugh out loud, but only because they were in front of a house where people

grieved. He went to the truck and climbed in, amusement and thoughts of spending an hour of
personal time with Ianthe serving as a shield until the vehicle door closed and the door to
memory opened.

Mierda. He could hear the arguments in his mind, the crying, the pleading. He could

remember the turmoil of a family torn apart by Julio coming out about being gay. His aunt’s
shame and his uncle’s anger.

He could feel his mother’s arms around him, hugging him tightly as she said, “Thanks to

God, Miguel, that you’re not like your cousin, that none of my children are. The shame of it
would kill your father.”

Fuck. If his cousin had just kept it to himself, he would be alive now. He wouldn’t have taken

the same road Ricky Moreno had. The drugs. The prostitution. The street. The only difference
was that Julio had been found dead in a dive hotel, his skull caved in, the murder never solved.

Miguel rubbed his chest, trying to push the ache back. He’d idolized Julio, been named after

him. There was only a five-year age difference between them. They’d been close, like brothers.
And Jesus, he’d been jealous when suddenly Julio didn’t want him tagging along.

It’d only made him more determined to know what Julio was up to. Maybe he’d already

been leaning toward a calling to be a detective.

It still bothered him to know there were members in his own family who viewed

homosexuality as a sin to be vigorously suppressed with the help of a priest. A leaning to be
eradicated with the help of a shrink.

He’d somehow escaped those beliefs. Don’t ask, don’t tell. It worked for him when it came

to other people’s sexuality, as long as no laws were broken and all the participants were
consenting adults.

Even in these enlightened times he wouldn’t want to be openly gay or bi. He liked being

normal, a red-blooded American male who’d been seen with his share of big-breasted blondes.
He didn’t want someone to look at him and wonder if he took it up the ass, or took other guys
that way. He was into women. Period.

His heart did a little sprint in his chest. Before he could prevent it, he flashed back to that

first time he’d followed Julio and caught him with Leon, easily remembered watching through
the window as the two of them made out on the couch, kissing, touching, ultimately stripping out
of their clothing and moving to the floor, Julio on the bottom, being fucked by Leon.

The hot throb of his cock had him shoving the memory aside, but not before he remembered

how hard he’d gotten watching them, and how often he’d fantasized afterward about meeting
someone like Leon, with his long black hair and beautiful body.

Just a stage I was going through. I am not gay. I am not bi. The only place I want to put my

dick is in a woman.

One woman in particular. He adjusted the front of his pants, his hand lingering, moving up

and down on his shaft at the remembered perfection of joining his body to Ianthe’s. There was
no logical explanation for it, but she felt permanent in his life.

* * * * *

Naked, Ianthe pulled her clothes from the dryer tucked away in a closet along with a

washer. Pride, at having figured out how to work the appliances, made her smile.

She carried the garments to the bed and dropped them in a pile on the mattress. The new-

clothes smell was gone, and she didn’t think the lack of obvious wear would stir Miguel’s
suspicions.

He was in another location now, the familiar-bond stretched at a different angle. She folded

shirts and jeans and shorts, stacked lacy panties and grimaced at the sight of the new bras
before gathering everything up and placing it in the battered suitcase Khemirra had lent her.

She closed the lid of the suitcase and picked up the prepaid cell phone on the dresser. With

a touch the screen lit up, and with another, a list of numbers appeared, Miguel’s and
Khemirra’s. Only two now—Khemirra had programmed them in for her—but one day the list
would be full of friends and family members.

Her thoughts went to the photographs she’d found in her search of Miguel’s apartment, to

the framed picture in his living room, his large family gathered and dressed in fine clothing.
Would they like her? Accept her? Would they welcome her among them?

Miguel’s life was defined by honor and duty, while hers… She’d killed, consuming a lover’s

essence in its entirety, sometimes because the demon lord demanded it and sometimes
because she’d been so hungry she’d lost control of herself.

“I’m not the same being as I was then,” she whispered. Those crimes against mankind were

hundreds of years in the past, well gone from the memories and the pain of the living. Yet there
was no denying she still needed to feed, not because she was demon but because the magic
anchoring her to this world required it just as her human mortality required food and water in
order to be sustained.

She flopped down on the bed, enjoying the feel of the comforter against her skin, the scent

of Miguel that lingered there and the memories of the pleasure they’d shared.

The day would be interminable if she remained here, waiting for him to come home. She’d

thought to return to the store since there’d been no possibility of buying clothes for her
masculine aspect when she was with Khemirra. But the discomfort she’d experienced at not
being able to purchase what she needed, at having to accept spending money from Khemirra
before leaving the car and returning to the apartment, now meant she wouldn’t.

Pride. Often it was a downfall, among demons as well as humans, but she saw, too, that it

had a purpose.

She couldn’t bring herself to waste resources, not when she’d chosen a height that would

match her body to Miguel’s. Far better to become Ian here and borrow clothing from Miguel
than to spend money unnecessarily.

Anticipation made her tingle. Nervousness made her heart give a small leap before starting

to race. In the dark realms her true form was hermaphroditic, something barely humanoid.
When she’d called that place home, it required only an image fixed in her mind and the
corresponding will to become it as she crossed into this world. She didn’t know how the
transformation would work now.

Closing her eyes, she mentally returned to those moments at the edge of the abyss, when

she’d chosen skin and hair color and height, only this time she imagined luscious breasts
flattening, bulk minimized and redistributed to form a masculine chest. She moaned, pleasure
flooding through her…him…as genitals reformed. Clit stretching, widening and filling with blood,
becoming a penis equal in size and girth to Miguel’s. Cunt lips swelling, closing, becoming
testicles. Muscles on legs and arms and torso firming, becoming more defined as facial
features shifted, shading into the masculine at the same time personality and thought processes
subtly changed.

Hunger. It roared through Ian, the need to feed the magic through sexual interaction, but

more urgently the driving desire to experience the ecstasy of release.

He opened his eyes and smiled at his physical body. It was just as he’d envisioned.
His cock jutted away from a flat, muscled abdomen, the foreskin pulled back from the

glistening tip. He bent his knees and the movement made him aware of the heavy globes of his
testicles.

Reaching down, he wrapped his fingers around his shaft, a sharp moan escaping as

pleasure streaked through him. A second one coming as he moved his hand up and down on
engorged flesh, his hips lifting off the mattress.

For long moments there was no thought, nothing other than exquisite sensation. In his

female aspect, he hadn’t found pleasure in performing the sexual acts demanded of him by the
demon lord, but in this aspect…

He panted, remembering the feel of a woman’s tight sheath, of thrusting in and out of it as

the human beneath him thrashed and screamed and cried out his name. He remembered what
it had been like to walk into a room and have the woman he’d been sent to service, or required

to seduce, go to her knees, freeing his penis from the confines of his pants to greedily take him
into her mouth.

More rarely was it a man, though he’d enjoyed taking them just as much—more so in truth.

It was intoxicating to pit strength against strength, to have another man yield control, to cede it
himself, though the latter was fantasy and not reality.

Hundreds of years ago he’d most often serviced a witch either strong enough to summon

him herself, or who’d made a bargain with the demon lord who owned him. But occasionally it
amused the lord to send him to seduce sanctimonious hypocrites and expose their hungers in a
time when sexual acts between men had been considered deviant by the majority, and those
engaged in them judged as sinners damned to hell.

He was glad to be summoned to these times, where there was greater tolerance and

acceptance of sexuality. Closing his eyes, he thought about Miguel’s seduction. Imagined
masculine lips touched to masculine lips in thorough exploration, those same mouths traveling
downward in a mirrored delivery of pleasure, halting at male nipples to rasp with tongues and
capture between teeth. Sharp, sharp pleasure blending with pain in a prelude to ecstasy, a
torment before moving lower, kisses pressed to muscled abdomens—his to Miguel’s, Miguel’s
to his, as hands fisted around rigid cocks, stroked once, twice, before guiding them to mouths
hungry for the taste of lust and power and surrender.

Ian’s buttocks clenched as he imagined Miguel sucking him. His fist tightened on his cock,

moving up and down on the shaft. Hips rising and falling, need building, building, filling his
testicles with liquid heat until there was no preventing its escape.

He groaned as white fire streaked through his cock in a rush of semen, welcomed the feel

of it striking chest and abdomen. The ropey jets a physical reminder of the familiar-bond with
Miguel.

Chapter Five

The house on Sheridan Street was a beige stucco with more dirt than grass in the yard and

a scattering of bikes lying on their sides. Six of them, Miguel counted, grabbing a legal pad
from the dashboard and joining Conner on the sidewalk. He braced himself to deliver another
notification of death, though given the nature of the murder, he thought it was possible they
were about to meet Ricky’s killer, or at least someone who knew why he’d died on that beach.

The doorbell was broken but a knock brought a good-looking Hispanic teen. He made them

instantly as cops, telegraphing it with a wary expression and a sudden rigidness of body.

“Yeah?” It verged on hostile but didn’t quite get there.
Music blared from a room down the hallway. The boy glanced over his shoulder and yelled,

“Turn it down. Cops are at the door.”

Miguel wondered if kids were racing to hide dope or rushing to escape through a back door.

Somebody turned the music off completely, meaning at least someone was left beside the teen
in front of them.

“Okay if we come in?”
“You got a warrant or something?”
“Do we need it?”
The kid shoved his hands into his pockets. Miguel was surprised the gesture didn’t push

them right off his hips, considering they were already riding low.

“I guess not.” The boy stepped out of the way.
“What’s your name?”
A hesitation that might mark a lie. “Antonio.”
“Antonio what?”
“Baeza.”
“We need to talk to everyone in the house. You live here?”
“Yeah.” Antonio led them to the room where the music had been playing. There were three

teens in it. They were facing a big screen TV, concentrating on the game there and pretending
a couple of cops hadn’t just entered the room.

“We need a few minutes of your time,” Miguel said.
They abandoned the video game slowly, like nothing that brought a cop here could be more

important than the game they were playing. Standing, they turned to face him and Conner,
expressions ranging from stony to suspicious and hostile, like kids who’d had run-ins with the
police before. They were about the same age as Antonio, around sixteen, all Hispanic and
good-looking, all bare-chested with pants sagging low enough to show colored Jockeys.

“I’m Detective Torres. My partner is Detective Stern. Is anyone else in the house?”
The boys exchanged glances and he got the distinct feeling they wished they’d bolted when

they had the chance. “No,” one of them answered.

“Detective Stern and I work Homicide.”

Fear hit every expression, remaining in the eyes of two of the kids while all emotion was

swallowed in the other two faces. Guilt maybe, but Miguel wouldn’t rule out their being afraid to
learn who’d died.

“David?” the one who’d spoken before asked, his voice breaking at the end.
“Names first. You’re?”
“Orozco.”
“Last name.”
“Diaz.”
“Jesus Ibarra.”
“Enrique Caballero,” the remaining kid said.
“Addresses?”
“We live here.”
“Who else lives here?”
Jesus crossed his arms over his chest. “Who died?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute. Who else lives here?”
“David Alves and Ricky Moreno.”
“No one else?”
“No.”
“Are David and Ricky a couple?”
Jesus stared at his feet like he’d never seen them before, shook his head no. Miguel looked

to the other kids and got the same response. Antonio said, “No.”

The lack of outrage told him they knew Ricky was gay and that David probably was too. He

was guessing all the boys were.

“Where can we find David?”
“It’s Ricky,” Jesus said, sinking to his knees on the couch. “Ricky’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“How? Where?”
“We can’t share that information at this time. Where can we find David Alves?”
“At work. He’s a dental assistant for Dr. Kellison, at the free clinic over on Flower Street.”
“This is his place?”
“Yes,” Antonio said, a glance at the others saying he was going to handle the questioning

now.

“How long has Ricky lived here?”
“About four months.”
“And before then?”
A shrug. “Around.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Last night. Around eight.”
“And you?” Miguel asked, directing the question at Jesus.
“The same.”
Enrique and Orozco agreed.

“Did he say where he was going?”
The boys exchanged glances. Antonio back to fielding the questions. “FlashBang.”
Miguel recognized the club name and bet the stamp on Ricky’s hand was going to come

from there. “He say if he was meeting anyone?”

“No. Just said that’s where he was heading.”
“He go there a lot?”
“No.”
“Who was Ricky seeing? What’s his boyfriend’s name?”
Shrugs answered the question. If they knew, they weren’t sharing the information.
“I take it none of you guys liked Ricky.” Miguel put a hard edge in his voice, trying to shake

something out of them, break through the front they were putting on.

Jesus jammed his hands into his pockets. “You got that wrong. He was okay.”
“Then help us out. We’re trying to find out who killed him. Maybe his boyfriend knows

something. What’s his name?”

A look in Antonio’s direction handed off responsibility. “We don’t know,” Antonio said.
“You’re telling me you never met him? That Ricky never talked about him?”
Another round of shrugs.
Suspicion had edged into Miguel’s thinking with each of them until he no longer believed the

responses and behavior stemmed only from a resistance to cops. The teens in front of him
seemed more like a wall protecting someone, Alves maybe.

Miguel changed tack. “Where were you guys after eight last night?”
“Here. We were here all night,” Antonio said. “We hung out playing video games.”
“David too,” Jesus added. “He was here with us.”
“Yeah, he was here too,” Antonio confirmed. “Ended up falling asleep on the couch and

slept while we played on. We had to wake him up so he’d make it to work on time.”

Lie? Truth? Miguel resisted the urge to glance at Conner and get a read as to what he was

thinking. “Ricky have any enemies you know of? Anyone he’s pissed off?”

That got another round of noes, solid enough Miguel believed them. “He have a job? A place

he hangs out during the day?”

“He works as a lifeguard. They usually put him at Crystal Beach.” A good five miles or so

from where he’d been killed.

“He have a cell phone?”
The kids all tensed, as if they were fighting the urge to look at one another to figure out

whether to answer or not. Antonio took the plunge. “Yeah. He had one awhile back. I think he
got rid of it though.”

“You know the number?”
“No.”
The other kids followed suit. All saying no and setting off alarm bells in the process.
“Ricky have a Facebook page?”
“No.” Jesus fielded that one. The quick, easy answer ringing as true.
“There a computer in the house?”
Antonio took over. “Not right now.”

A dodge. “But sometimes?”
“David’s got a laptop. He takes it with him to work.”
They didn’t have cause to search the entire house. Miguel settled for, “Okay if we check

Ricky’s room?”

The question was met by tense silence. Obvious resistance until Antonio gave the go ahead

and led them to the bedroom, taking up a position in the doorway to watch.

So he can report to David Alves? Or Ricky’s boyfriend, if they aren’t one and the same?
Miguel glanced at Conner, who’d been quiet, letting him handle the kids since they were

Hispanic. Conner’s nearly imperceptible shrug translated into Let the kid watch. Better to get
this done quickly and without complications.

They went through the room methodically. Clothes, piled on the dresser as well as hung in

the closet, said Ricky liked looking nice. There was jewelry, more than most kids his age would
own.

A surfboard leaned up against a wall. A couple of skateboards rested nearby. No hint of

drug use.

There was no computer, but a cell phone with internet access might be all Ricky needed. A

charger for one was plugged in next to the bed.

Miguel crouched and saw a stack of skin magazines under the bed. Due diligence meant

pulling them out and flipping through them on the off chance there’d be a love letter or personal
photograph, something that might lead to identifying Ricky’s boyfriend.

He tried turning off his thoughts but his cock didn’t listen after the first picture of a long-

haired guy who looked a lot like Leon. Sweat broke out on his skin. Panic threatened to seize
him at the prospect of standing up with a noticeable erection.

Think about Ianthe.
Fuck! That made things worse, reminding him of her suspicion that he was bi.
He thought about murder instead.
Ricky on the beach.
The crime scene pictures from Julio’s unsolved murder. He’d asked to see the murder book

the day he joined the police force.

His cock softened and he raced through the last of the magazines. Pushed them back

beneath the bed.

“Anything?” Conner asked from where he’d been going through the clothing, checking

pockets.

“No.” He stood.
Conner turned away from the closet.
“You done?” Antonio asked.
“Almost,” Conner said, taking charge and returning to the TV room, requesting IDs.
Wallets were shucked out of back pockets and IDs handed over with hostile attitudes.

Conner jotted down the relevant information and returned them.

They left, pausing a few steps away from the front door. “I counted six bikes going in,”

Conner said. “Now there are only four.”

“Want to bet on the kids knowing who rode away on the other two?”

Conner snorted. “Do I look like a sucker?”
“Some days.”
“Name one.”
Miguel grinned. “I’ll get back to you on that. Right now I’m working.”
He turned toward the house while Conner kept going. Their exchange off-setting some of

the aggravation he experienced when, a moment later, Antonio denied there’d been anyone
else at the house and said there should only have been four bikes in the yard.

“Any surprises?” Conner asked at the curb.
“No.”
“All of them gay?”
“Probably.”
“What do you want to bet we’re going to find them in the system?”
“Not a bet I’d take. I’m guessing they have similar backgrounds to Ricky.”
“Booted out of their houses because they’re gay?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a goddamn shame.”
“Yeah.” He knew only too well how it could go for a Hispanic kid announcing he was gay. “At

least we got FlashBang from them.”

Conner opened his door. “It’s a good lead. It’ll save us from having to canvass nightclubs if

the stamp on Ricky’s hand is a match.”

“They seemed genuinely afraid we might be about to tell them Alves was dead, not Ricky.”
“That was my take too. Interesting how quickly they rallied to include Alves in their alibi.”
“I caught that. Could just be second nature, from having run-ins with cops before. But why

the bullshit about the phone?”

“Good question. Ready to head to the free clinic on Flowers Street?”
“Might as well, though by the time we get there, one of the kids will have already called

David Alves.”

One of them had, and David Alves was on his way home, excused from work because the

news had left him overcome with grief.

“I was almost afraid to let him drive,” Dr. Kellison said. “He was crying so hard.”
Interesting. Hard to miss that Alves was obviously taking Ricky’s death a lot differently than

his other housemates. Miguel asked, “Did you know Ricky?”

“Possibly. Probably.” The doctor shrugged. “I see a lot of kids who are fending for

themselves.”

“Why do you think Ricky was one of them?”
“Because I know David. He volunteers over at the outreach center on Godwin, does what he

can to help kids going through the same thing he went through.”

“Including letting them live with him?”
“Including that, yes.”
“Any chance Ricky was David’s boyfriend?”
“Not my business. David wasn’t an in-your-face guy when it came to being gay. He’s didn’t

make a secret of it, but he didn’t talk about it, at least not here at work.”

Kellison glanced in the direction of his waiting room. “I’m sorry, but if there’s nothing more, I

need to get back to my patients.”

“Do you have a phone number for Alves?”
The doctor gave it to them without having to look it up.
They returned to their vehicles. Miguel called Alves. It went to voice mail. He left a message

requesting a call back and pocketed the phone.

Conner said, “Let’s swing by the station. I’d like to run names before we talk to Alves.”
“You get a start on that. I’ll stop at FlashBang on the way in, see if we can at least get a

confirmation on the stamp.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

* * * * *

The witch, Seraphine Jordain, was gorgeous. Dark red hair, tall—in fact they were about

the same height—but more important to Khemirra, the connection she’d felt when she called to
make the appointment solidified the instant Seraphine opened the door and they met in person.

Her smile widened thinking about Dylan and Seraphine together. According to Aislinn,

Seraphine was his heartmate.

The homicide cop might as well have single and determined to stay that way in huge blinking

lights over his head. Not that he’d been hitting on anyone at the BBQ or even brought a date,
but he had the vibe of a guy with a revolving door on his bedroom.

Probably had to leave a note to himself to remember the woman’s name in the morning.

Unkind but true—and damn if she and Conner weren’t going to enjoy the show.

“Dylan, huh?” she said as she entered Seraphine’s home, unable to suppress her curiosity.

It was the same driving force that had given her the motivation and strength to leave the insular
world of pack for the larger one dominated by humans with no tie to the supernatural. “You’ve
got your work cut out for you.”

“I know. And that’s based on our one face-to-face interaction. But he’s the one for me.” She

held out her arm, displaying a bracelet with green stones on her wrist. They were the same
green as the stone in Dylan’s ring.

“Aislinn’s work?” Khemirra guessed.
Seraphine nodded. “You’re familiar with Elven heartstones?”
“Yes. Though I’d never actually seen one until yesterday, when Trace, then Dylan showed

up for the BBQ.” She laughed. “Well, as far as I know, I’ve never come into contact with one.
They don’t smell like magic, and I haven’t had reason to taste anyone’s stones.”

She nearly laughed at the way that’d come out, and then she did when Seraphine’s

eyebrows lifted in mock disbelief. “Really? I would have thought a werewolf with a mate…”

Seraphine’s quick and bawdy humor solidified Khemirra’s impression that they were going to

be fast friends. “I’d rephrase, but I think you know what I meant, even if what I said might
actually have been a Freudian slip, come to think about it.”

“I do. As to whether or not you’d recognize a heartstone by any of your senses, I’m not sure

you would, unless it reacted to you, or you reacted to it—which would be unlikely now that
you’ve got a mate. It’s a guess, but I think only the Elven recognize the stones with potential. I
know only they can match the resonance of a stone with the person who can benefit from

possession of it.”

Khemirra sighed. “I see the makings of some great articles. Unfortunately I’ll never be able

to write them.”

“True. But it’s best to stay hidden.”
“Yeah, even in these enlightened times.” She shuddered, remembering Armand Scholes and

his plans for her, and then all thoughts of him disappeared as she followed Seraphine down a
hallway boasting an amazing—downright breathtaking—display of tribal masks.

“These are incredible. I could spend hours studying them.”
“Thanks. And you can, if you’d like, once we’re done with the medallion.”
A photo spread formed in Khemirra’s imagination. “Do you have documentation? Histories?

Would you consider letting me write a piece about the masks?”

Seraphine laughed. “Yes to all those questions. And this isn’t my full collection.”
They entered a high-ceilinged room alive with plants and bird song. A huge cage ran along

one wall and Khemirra was drawn to it by bright colors and fluttering movements. She did not,
however, lick her lips in the presence of the finches. She had more self-control than that—a
wolf was not a cat.

As if thinking about cats had summoned one, she heard hissing and spitting and turned away

from the cage to see a puffed-up calico standing on the back of a chair. “Ignore Patches,”
Seraphine said, sitting, sharing the cat’s chair—or maybe blocking it from attacking.

Eyeballing the cat, Khemirra took the opposite seat, a glass coffee table between them.

“Patches? Not exactly a very dignified name for a familiar.” Meant as a joke because she knew
not all witches had familiars.

“My niece’s name choice. My niece’s familiar.” Seraphine made an unhappy face. “But that’s

a story for another day. Let’s take a look at the medallion.”

Khemirra tugged it from her pocket, using the chain. Despite it being inert of magic, she

didn’t want to touch it.

Seraphine had no such reservations. She took it, rubbing her thumb over one smooth

surface before turning it over in her palm and doing the same to the other side.

“It tasted like brimstone and ash. It smelled like black magic.”
“Blood magic,” Seraphine corrected with a grimace, the tone of her voice an indication it

was an automatic, often-used response.

Khemirra didn’t argue the point. What did she know about the actual practice of magic? Not

much, though she knew all about stereotyping. She was a werewolf after all, often portrayed,
at least by non-romance and non-YA authors, as a miniature sasquatch who liked to howl at the
moon and rip people apart.

Seraphine placed the medal on the coffee table. “Aislinn has an affinity for silver and is able

to gather information through touch, so I think we can assume whatever was bound to the
medallion is now bound to the homicide detective your mate is partnered with.”

“Miguel is his name. She calls herself Ianthe.”
“And you believe she’s now human?”
“Yes. There’s nothing nonhuman about her scent. When I encountered her before, she didn’t

even bother with a heartbeat or breathing. If there’s magic, it’s too subtle for the wolf to pick
up.”

“You said there was a sigil on one side of the medallion before Miguel touched it. Can you

reproduce the image?”

“Yes.” Scaredy cat. “Is it safe?”
“We’ll take precautions.”
Seraphine reached for the pencil and tablet at the far end of the coffee table, pulling them to

the middle. She opened the pad then picked up the pencil and drew two halves of a circle,
leaving a small strip of white between them.

Khemirra took the pencil when it was offered. Curiosity had compelled her to study the

medallion. It didn’t take her long to recreate the sigil.

Setting the pencil down, she asked, “So are we talking demon?”
“Yes.”
Oh shit. She didn’t want to convey that information to Conner. She’d danced around it when

pressed earlier, and thankfully in this case, his desire to avoid discussions of the supernatural
had worked in her favor. But going forward…

She grimaced just as Seraphine looked up. “It’s not as terrible as it sounds.”
“O…kay. I’ll bite.”
“Figuratively speaking I hope, and not literally.”
She laughed as Seraphine had meant her to. “That’ll depend on what else you have to say.”
Seraphine’s smile inspired confidence. “Do you know there are more hells than can be

counted in total? The Christian religion has one, the Buddhists anywhere from eight to several
thousand, the Hindus several million. So in discussing demons, understand it covers a lot of
territory.”

Khemirra nodded, accepting the point.
“The sigil on the medallion is actually a weave of several different sigils, done in a way that

one set of spells, as it were, obscures the existence of the other set.” Seraphine picked up the
pencil, putting the tip on one of the lines Khemirra had drawn and tracing over it. “This is what
bound the demon to the medallion initially.”

She traced over a different location. “This is what gave Scholes the power to command the

demon.”

Khemirra leaned forward, totally intrigued as she concentrated on seeing what remained

after excluding those pieces. “And the rest of it?”

“First, a question—is Miguel a witch?” Seraphine traced a small portion of the sigil.

“Because that’s what this denotes.”

“If he is, I’d be willing to wager he’s either a hereditary witch who doesn’t know it, or he’s a

practitioner who’s deep in the closet. Why does it matter?”

“This is intuited on my part, but I believe when he touched the medallion a bond best

categorized as a familiar-bond snapped into place, drawing the entirety of the demon’s
essence into this world and making Ianthe mortal.”

“And what was she before?”
“The demons would have their own name for it, but think succubus, since the female form

was invoked.”

Oh yeah. She could see that, and on some level, the wolf had picked up on it, feeling very

possessive of her mate. Looking back now, she was aware of how much that had eased after

Miguel and Ianthe left the party. “I’m with you. So my read isn’t wrong, she’s fully human now?”

“In all the ways that matter, though she’ll need something to sustain her original essence.”

Seraphine laughed. “And I suspect Miguel won’t mind being the source of her nourishment.”

“We’re talking sex, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“He looked willing and happy to accommodate at the barbeque. He’ll be enough for her?”

Not that heartbreak was the sole territory of the purely human.

Seraphine shrugged. “I can’t answer that question with any certainty because I don’t know

her motivations for leaving the dark realm and coming here. You spent time with her, what do
you think?”

“I think I could come to like her quite a bit—as long as she doesn’t hurt Conner’s partner.

Does the bond mean Miguel is safe from her, physically? If I remember correctly, according to
some legends, succubi had a nasty habit of draining the men they were with of life, not just
semen.”

“He’s her anchor. The bond makes it easy for her to live in this world, but if she were

mortally wounded… I can’t say for sure that she couldn’t take all of his essence in order to
sustain herself, especially in the unknown of death and what it might mean for her soul. If she
did that—and this is conjecture though it stems from knowledge—then she’d have to keep doing
it until she managed to form another bond.”

A cold chill swept over Khemirra. “You mean she’d become a serial killer? Shades of a

Black Widow?”

“Yes. But if that had been her intention, then when she was first summoned by the mage

who bound her to the medallion, I believe she would have struck a different bargain in exchange
for enslaving herself as she did.”

Khemirra took a deep breath, then exhaled it slowly, finding hope in the conversation with

Ianthe about money that would soon vanish, and the dem— Ianthe’s concern over cheating the
cabdriver. “That sounds reasonable. She could be the world’s greatest actress, but the more
time I spent with her the more she seemed…decent. She wouldn’t answer my questions when it
came to her past or Miguel, except to say she wanted the same thing with him that I’d found
with Conner. It didn’t smell like a lie.”

“I believe it’s probably best not to interfere.”
Conner wasn’t going to like it but in this she agreed with Seraphine. Meddling in relationships

when two humans were hot and heavy for each other was usually a mistake. Throw in the
supernatural and things only got more complicated.

“Yeah. I know.”
“Care to examine the masks now?”
“Definitely.” Khemirra rose, content to leave the medallion on the table.

* * * * *

Ian lifted his face to the sky, reveling in being in this world, human and mortal and free of the

demon lord’s rule. He closed his eyes as he had in his female form upon leaving the abyss,
savored the feel of the sun’s rays against his skin, though rather than the scent of flowers and
the sound of music, he inhaled the smell of the ocean, heard children playing and the pounding

of the surf.

Sublime. That was the word to describe what it meant to be here, despite the temptation

that came with being in the presence of beautiful women wearing miniscule scraps of material,
bikinis that covered only their nipples and mounds and the cleft between their sleek, tanned
buttocks. To be in a place where more than one man wearing shorts, as he was, or the male
version of bikini bottoms, had smiled at him, inviting him with their eyes to cross the sand and
get better acquainted.

Hunger was a gnawing ache, as it had been in his female aspect. It was far more of a

struggle to keep from satisfying it in this form than it had been as Ianthe. He’d always been
more predatory in this aspect, but then he’d never been required to let a man penetrate him.
He’d always been the one taking, dominating with the thrust of his cock.

He began to harden in the presence of so much temptation, but remembering the release

he’d gained lying on Miguel’s bed, fantasizing about the man he was already bound to, he told
himself he could resist temptation. He would resist it.

There was more to be had of this existence than the pleasure that came from feeding. Now,

as Ian, masculine hungers dominated, but once satisfied, the preference for taking the female
form would return, and with it, softer emotions, the craving for love among them.

He opened his eyes. Ahead of him a brother and sister were building a sandcastle while a

toddler flung sand with a small plastic shovel. As Ianthe, he would one day desire a family.
Already in his female aspect he longed to be accepted by those Miguel loved. Imagined being
included in the pictures of those Miguel was related to.

Ian began walking, a frown settling on his face as he thought about the stack of skin

magazines in Miguel’s nightstand—female forms to fantasize about while masturbating—and
Miguel’s vehement denial of having been with another man. He could accept the necessity of
being discreet, of avoiding unnecessary complications. In public and among those humans with
no awareness of the supernatural existing around them, he could be nothing more than a close
friend. But he didn’t intend to be some dark secret, a hidden shame. In the presence of the
Were and her mate, or the half-elf and her detective husband, or Storm and the fey—when he
felt he could trust them with knowledge of his origins and the familiar-bond tying him to Miguel—
then he wouldn’t accept hiding the fact he and Miguel were lovers, as both Ianthe and Ian.

* * * * *

Miguel stepped into the Homicide bullpen. Home Sweet Home, different than the house he

grew up in but evoking the same feeling of belonging.

Brady was talking about a fish and giving a minute by minute replay of the battle he’d had

with it. “Let me guess,” Miguel said. “It was the size of a whale and it got away, same as the
last perp you were in a footrace with.”

Brady gave a tortured sigh. “Why does everybody around me think they’re a comedian?” He

tapped a forefinger to his head. “The heavy lifting gets done up here. This is where cases get
solved. I got a partner to do the running.”

Storm snorted, sending a smile at Miguel that once would have had his heart soaring. Today

he found himself grinning, feeling only camaraderie and not even a whisper of lust.

“So how do we know Madame Fontaine isn’t looking into her crystal ball and giving you

answers?” he asked Brady. “How’d you hook up with her anyway?”

“Hook up might be a little too modern a term to apply to Brady,” Storm said. “Take a look at

what he’s wearing.”

Miguel looked—then looked harder. “Holy shit. There’s not a stain or wrinkle to be seen.”
“That’s because—and this is based on my own skills of detection—Ilsa helped him get

dressed this morning. Notice the cut of his suit and that it’s iron gray, not god-awful brown. He’s
also resplendent in a striped tie that pulls gray suit and blue shirt together in an attractive
ensemble. I bet if we check, we’re going to find socks that match the outfit.”

“Jesus.” Brady stood, color creeping into his face. “Young people today. They don’t show

no respect. Let’s go, Kid. The city doesn’t pay us to sit around on our asses.”

“Sure thing, Pops.”
They left as Miguel reached his desk, the front of it pushed against the front of Conner’s.

“Trace and Aislinn. Now Brady and Madame Fontaine…”

Once Conner would have grimaced, maybe even gone into a full rant about things

supernatural, instead he laughed. “Times, they are a changing. You and I missed some of the
action but now…”

“We’re back,” they said in unison, a falsetto rendition of a horror flick chorus.
“You got anything?” Miguel asked.
“Yeah. Take a look.”
Rather than claiming his chair, he went around so he could look down at the printouts

spread across Conner’s desk. Antonio and friends. All pulled in at one time or another for
soliciting. Orozco, Enrique and Jesus also found with a little pot on them.

“Confirms what we suspected.” His attention shifted to the rap sheets to the far left. “David

Alves and Ricky Moreno have the same kind of record, interesting enough, they’ve both done
time in Miami. Looks like Alves has been clean for eight years, Ricky for the last one.”

“That we know of. But what’s a twenty-six-year-old guy doing with roommates who are

fifteen, sixteen years old? Eighteen, when we include Ricky.”

Miguel played optimist. “Kindness of his heart. Does what he can to help kids going through

the same thing he went through, like Dr. Kellison said.”

“A single guy, footing the bill for the house, clothes, food? Covering it with his salary at a

free clinic?”

“Or the others are kicking in their share, maybe doing what they’ve done in the past.”

Miguel’s gaze flicked over the other sheets. “What’s the most recent arrest?”

“Five months ago. Antonio pulled in on a sweep. Not enough to charge him, so they cut him

loose. I took the liberty of tracking down one of his parents. His mother’s still at the address he
has on his ID. Says he and his father don’t get along. Wouldn’t come right out and say why, but
reading between the lines, it boils down to his being gay.”

“The stamp on Ricky’s hand was from FlashBang. Most of the clientele is gay, lesbian, bi or

transgender. The bartender, waitress and bouncer from last night won’t all be on duty until six.”

“Good place to go if you’re meeting a client or looking for one. Surveillance cameras?”
“No.”
“I’ve got some uniforms checking the shops along the beach to see if anything was caught

on tape near the time of the murder.”

“You make any progress on Ricky’s phone?”

“Already got a call-record request in motion. Assuming, of course, he only has the one

phone. Got his number from Parks and Recreation. Also talked to his supervisor, who was
upset to learn about Ricky’s death. She said he was a good worker, well liked and very
conscientious. Started as a lifeguard at one of the city pools a little less than five months ago.
Pulled a six-year-old out and did mouth-to-mouth, saving the girl’s life in his second week on the
job. Got the beach job a month ago.”

“Sounds like a guy who cleaned up his act. Fits with what the sister said about him doing

okay, finding someone who loved him.”

“Maybe. Can’t discount the temptation to make some quick money. What if he gave in to it

but the love of his life found out? Four in the chest is personal. Angry.”

“Lot of use-by-the-hour—or less—hotel rooms within walking distance of Diamond Beach.”
“Exactly. Maybe Ricky’s lover followed him to one. Maybe it wasn’t the first time, only this

time he came prepared for a confrontation.” Conner closed his eyes as if imagining it. “Says he
wants to talk things out, but not in a room that smells like come and reminds him of what he
knows just happened there. Lures Ricky to the beach, maybe already thinking about the tide
coming in, hopefully washing away anything that might lead us to him. If not, then maybe that
was just an unintended benefit, and he was thinking being close to the ocean would mean the
gunshots wouldn’t draw as much attention.”

Miguel could see it going down like that. He looked over the collection of mug shots. “Before

we head out to talk to Alves we should get some uniforms to start canvassing the hotels, flash
Ricky’s picture as well as his housemates’.”

Conner opened his eyes. “If nothing else, if we catch one of them turning tricks, we can use

it for leverage, make sure we know everything there is to know about the situation. I checked
with Turner when I got in. He was on a callout, said he’d have the crime scene photos on your
desk sometime this afternoon. Wilson called, said he’s going to try to squeeze the autopsy in
for later today, but no guarantees. It may not happen until tomorrow.”

“I’ll attend.”
Conner’s eyebrows shot up. Usually they flipped for it, loser went. Miguel shrugged, trying

to brush off the implied question. It didn’t work.

“What gives?”
He surprised himself by answering. “Case is stirring up old memories. I had a cousin who

was gay. Got kicked out. Got addicted. Got killed hooking because of it.”

“Being different can suck. These are more tolerant times but I’m sure as hell glad the only

direction my cock points is straight at Khemirra.”

“Yeah. Me too.”
Conner grinned. “Don’t sound so relieved. You’re missing something unforgettable.”
“For which I’m grateful,” Miguel said, experiencing a weird sensation in his chest at how

casually Conner could spin what he’d said in a different direction and joke about doing it with
another man.

“Your cousin’s case get solved?”
“No.”
“Well, we’ll solve this one. Let’s go find out what David Alves knows then we’ll break for an

hour of personal time.”

They delayed long enough for Conner to put together a sheet containing all the photos, then

print it out, dropping it off for distribution to some of the uniformed cops.

Miguel took the lead in his truck, and rounding the corner onto Sheridan Street, noted the

car in the driveway, an old Nissan, same make, model and color as the one registered to David
Alves. A couple of kids were in the front yard with Antonio. They looked sixteen, and were
straddling bikes way too similar to the ones that had been missing when he and Conner left the
house earlier for it to be a coincidence.

A word from Antonio—or that’s the way it appeared—and the boys glanced in his direction

then took off. Fuck! It could just be a gut reaction to cops, but running even once suggested
they had something to hide. Running twice practically screamed “guilty”.

In the rearview mirror, he saw Conner jerk his sedan into a driveway and back out, then

head in the opposite direction with the intention of going around and trying to cut the kids off.
Not an easy task considering the bikes could be ditched if the situation was desperate enough.

Antonio was already inside as Miguel passed the house, probably warning of the impending

visit. Mierda, the kids and Alves might as well be holding up a sign saying, “Look closer.”

His cell rang when he got to the end of the street. The boys had turned right. He didn’t see

them. Answering the call, he said, “Got anything?”

“No.”
“You want to call for a couple of patrol units?”
He heard Conner’s frustrated sigh. “No. We’re already going to dig harder at what’s going

on with Alves and the kids. There’s a good chance those two will surface again. Did you get a
good look at them?”

“Good enough. What about you?”
“The same. I’m heading back to Alves’ place.”
They met up at the end of the driveway and walked to the front door together. Antonio

answered it.

Conner was pissed enough to take the lead. “I want the names of those two kids.”
Everything about Antonio screamed resistance and Conner decided to ram through it with

the only warning he intended to give. “Tell me you don’t know, or feed me bullshit, and we’ll haul
you in for obstruction.”

“Angelo and Rogelio. I don’t know their last names. I don’t know where they live. They just

come around sometimes to play video games.”

“Your friends?”
“They hang out with everyone.”
“David included?”
That got a flash of anger—at the kids getting attention from David? Or at the implication

behind the question? Conner couldn’t tell. “They hang out with David?” he asked again.

“He talks to them sometimes. He’s a gamer when he’s home.”
Innocent until proven guilty, Conner reminded himself, but this set-up, a twenty-six-year-old

surrounded by much younger boys, rubbed him the wrong way, same as it would if a bunch of
teenage girls were shacked up with an older man who wasn’t related to any of them—
especially given a history of prostitution and drug usage.

“We’re here to talk to Alves.”
“Not home.” Antonio didn’t step out of the doorway.

Conner glanced in the direction of the Nissan in the driveway. “His car is.”
“Yeah, but he’s not. He’s in bad shape because of Ricky. A friend of his came by and picked

him up.”

“And let me guess, you don’t know this friend’s name or where he lives, or where they

went.”

“Sorry, man.” Insolence, the I hate cops tone jogging Conner’s memory. There was a note in

Antonio’s file that his uncle was a patrol officer. Could be the dislike had its roots there, or
could just stem from run-ins over drugs and hooking.

“Okay if we come in, look around again?”
“Can’t right now. I need to head out and nobody else is here.”
There was a dare in his voice, like he wanted them to waste time trying for a warrant.

Conner decided not to push for entry, not until they had more to go on. Give the uniforms a
chance to canvass the motels, wait and see what popped on Ricky’s phone record, and what
might have gone down at FlashBang.

It didn’t stop him from saying, “For a guy whose friend was murdered, you’re not being very

cooperative.”

“I’ve already told you everything I know. You’ve already been through Ricky’s room. What

more is there?”

Exactly. What more was going on here? That was definitely a question he intended to

answer.

“You see Alves, tell him we want to talk to him,”
Antonio closed the door without responding. Conner pulled the notebook out of his pocket,

along with his cell phone. He flipped to the page with Alves’ number and dialed it, listening hard
to see if he heard it ring inside.

He didn’t, and when it went to voice mail he left a message, a duplicate of the one Miguel

had already left, asking Alves to call.

“Worth a try,” he said, exchanging a glance with Miguel before punching in another number,

his cock hardening in anticipation, the foreskin pulling back the instant Khemirra answered.

“You home?”
Her laugh told him she knew exactly why he was asking. “You looking for a quick roll in the

hay, Conner?”

“Not that quick.”
“Good, because I’m not going to make it easy for you. You’re going to have to work at

getting me out of my clothes.”

Jesus. Imagining her dressed the way she usually was, shorts and a thin tank top, turned his

dick into a battering ram against the front of his pants. “Shouldn’t be too hard, baby. See you in
a few.”

He returned the phone and notebook to his pocket. “Now to work off a little frustration. Meet

back at the station?”

“See you there.”

Chapter Six

His place was empty. Usually he wouldn’t notice it, but walking in, catching a faint hint of

whatever perfume Ianthe had been wearing, drove the point home as to just how much he’d
anticipated finding her there.

Shit. He should have thought to ask for her cell number.
She’d said she’d return tonight, but what if that was just a line?
He went into the bedroom, the sudden tightness in his chest leaving when he saw a suitcase

on the floor next to his closet and knew she’d checked out of her hotel and intended to stay with
him.

He sat on the bed, the trophies on the shelf in his closet catching his attention and making

him think of long-ago soccer games. Julio and Leon, teammates on the field. And off it—

Not going there.
Fuck. He needed Ianthe here. Beneath him. Taking his cock. On top of him, offering her

breasts for him to suck.

He got up and went to the closet, closing the door after tossing a pair of sneakers out.

Might as well blow off some steam by joining the basketball game he’d seen when he pulled
into the complex.

Swapping out work clothes for shorts, he went to the court, sweat forming on his bare chest

and shoulders just from the Florida heat. But damn, he loved the feel of the sun on his skin,
always had.

“Homicide sure is a cush job,” one of the guys said, tossing him the ball. “Don’t think the

sarge would be too thrilled to see the patrol car parked next to the court and me out of uniform
in the middle of the day.”

Miguel grinned at the first of what would end up a long string of slams not limited to the ball

swooshing through the hoop. He gave himself over to the game and the camaraderie that came
from all of them being cops or firemen. Found refuge in both until a play on the ball had him
pivoting, catching sight of a guy passing the court.

Christ. He looked like a male version of Ianthe, even down to the long hair. Worse, as if

sensing Miguel’s attention on him, the guy slowed, turned, their eyes meeting with an impact
that had blood rushing straight to Miguel’s cock.

Panic threatened to seize him at the intensity of the physical reaction. He battled it with

logic. Told himself he’d come home horny for Ianthe and that’s why seeing a male version of her
had given him an instant boner.

A yell from the side. A ball coming at him. He deflected, passing it on, worrying about what

his shorts revealed and knowing it wouldn’t take long for a sharp-eyed cop to spot the erection
and start cracking jokes about it.

“Gotta go,” he said, escaping the game, heart pounding against his chest like the sound of a

dribbled basketball and sneakered feet against asphalt.

“You’re related to Ianthe,” he said, the blue of the stranger’s eyes sucking him in like the

whirlpool that’d delivered him to Talocan.

“Ian. Ianthe’s twin. I got this address from her.”
They shook hands, the contact of skin to skin making Miguel fight not to clench his buttocks.

Mierda. What was wrong with him?

But he knew. The thoughts of Julio with Leon, coming right after Ianthe’s morning question.
Dios. Had she known he’d have this reaction to her brother?
“She wasn’t here when I got back.” He prayed she would be as he led Ian to the apartment,

recognizing the fear in himself and acknowledging he needed a buffer, something that would
allow him an excuse for a cock that was so hard it ached.

Denial screamed through him. But memory was louder. He’d felt this same way that first

time, when he was twelve and Elizabeth, the sixteen-year-old friend of his sister, had come
over to the house and stripped out of her clothes right in front of him.

He’d been fantasizing about her for months, jerking off and imagining her naked. But that

day in the TV room, he’d nearly come just looking at her tits and pussy.

The apartment was empty. He knew it the instant he opened the door.
He needed to take a shower and get back to work. It was a good enough excuse to part

company and send Ian on his way.

He was hyperaware of Ian’s proximity. Bare chest and arms and legs. Long hair shimmering

down his back. Worn cutoffs like his favorite pair, doing nothing to hide the bulge in them,
cologne that combined with his skin the same way Ianthe’s perfume did, turning his presence
into a potent invitation to sin.

Sin. Miguel grabbed onto the word like it was a life preserver, tried to use it to wrench away

from his awareness of Ian before it carried him down. Only thoughts of going down took his
mind to another place, to memories of watching Leon go down on Julio, sucking cock at the
same time his was being sucked.

Tell him to come back later. Tell him to call first to see if Ianthe is here. Say adios right

now.

The thoughts tumbled through Miguel but remained unspoken as he pushed the door open

and said, “You can wait while I shower, in case she shows up. I’ve got to leave for work as
soon as I grab something to eat.”

Ian followed him in. “Nice,” he said, eyes on Miguel’s ass as he made a beeline to the

bedroom.

“Thanks.”
Miguel passed through the doorway without closing the door. Ian smiled. Conscious

invitation? Or unconscious one?

Despite Miguel’s denial of his sexuality when he was in bed with Ianthe, despite the lack of

skin mags with men in them, he wanted, needed. Even without retaining something of his
incubus nature, Ian could recognize attraction and correctly interpret the erection at the front of
Miguel’s shorts. The only significant difference between now and earlier was that unlike the
confidence and shades of dominance Miguel displayed with Ianthe, he was afraid of going after
what he desired now.

Well I’m not. I can’t afford to be.
He’d managed to resist temptation at the beach, hadn’t answered any of the invitations sent

his way. But denying himself had also made him more predatory.

Survival instinct? Habits of old? Both would fade into something manageable once he fed

from Miguel’s lust.

Sated—fully sated—equality was possible. He’d take Miguel and be taken by him. He could

be an easy companion and flexible lover. But not now, not with hunger howling through him,
battering against restraint and urging him to use every advantage, the full force of his nature so
he could feed completely.

Few could resist—regardless of their sexual leanings. He closed his eyes for a moment,

reining in the ruthlessness.

A crack formed in the wall of fiery need, allowing the guilt he’d experienced in his female

aspect to slide in with a reminder from the past, of a man hanging from a rope, preferring the
damnation of suicide rather than to live with himself after being seduced into the bed of another
man.

Not my choice. Not my fault.
He’d been a slave at the beck and call of a demon lord. He’d done what he was told to do.

And yet, looking back, he could see the stirrings of conscience hundreds of years ago.

He heard the shower go on. Follow? Or wait?
His cock said go, fantasies of slick, naked flesh assailing him. Erections touching, rubbing,

as tongues did the same.

A shudder of need went through him. His hand dropped to the front of his shorts and his

head tilted backward as he imagined Miguel doing the same. Eyes closed as heated water
struck his skin. His hand wrapped around his cock, moving up and down, a poor substitute for
the pleasure he needed only to ask for in order to receive.

Go! Trapped in the confines of the shower, there’d be no escape for Miguel. He’d have to

face his desires, accept them.

Ian panted, imagining Miguel turning to the shower wall. Asking, demanding with the

presentation of sleek, masculine buttocks that they be parted, penetrated.

Too soon. Ian knew it was too soon but he needed something to hold him until he could sate

his hunger fully.

Better to make inroads now, before Miguel fortified the wall of denial between them. This

attraction was real, not fabricated. It would have existed regardless of what remained of his
demon essence, though it was strengthened by the familiar-bond so that in either of his
aspects, he knew the hidden cravings of Miguel’s heart, not just his body.

Ian went into the bedroom, his gaze lingering on the bed, his thoughts brushing against the

guilt Ianthe felt over the necessary lies between her and Miguel. This time the lie would be
Miguel’s if he continued to deny the truth of his own nature.

The shower stopped. Don’t leave this until later. Don’t allow him time to put distance

between desire and acting on that desire.

Instinct had Ian moving with swift strides toward the bathroom. Like the bedroom door, that

one was open too, in a subconscious invitation he couldn’t afford to ignore, and didn’t want to.

With each step, more of his nature exerted itself, releasing pheromones and filling the air

with the dark whisper of carnal secrets, the inescapable call to ecstasy. He reached the
doorway and saw Miguel, eyes closed, an expression of sensual agony on his face, one hand
braced on the counter as the other gripped his shaft.

Closing the distance between them, Ian reached around. His hand covering Miguel’s, he

said, “There’s a better way to find relief.”

Electric pleasure whipped through Miguel. It held him rigid, body at war with his mind, one

screaming yes while the other said no.

His eyes snapped open, his mouth doing the same, to tell Ian to get the fuck away from him.

But the sight in the mirror shocked him into silence.

His cock spasmed, moisture beading on the tip.
He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop his breath from catching when Ian moved closer so

skin touched skin, chest to back, and the hard length of his denim-covered erection pressed to
buttocks clamped tight in a fight to stave off the hot release of semen.

“You left the door open,” Ian said. “I took it for an invitation.”
Denial screamed through him, even as the internal voice he tried to keep silenced told him

Ian spoke the truth. And then he couldn’t hear anything but the rush of blood, the roar of desire
as Ian’s hand slid lower, beneath his own. Then up, forcing his away from his cock.

Fuck! His hips jerked, wild need arriving with the tightening of his balls in warning.
He couldn’t prevent a moan from escaping. Or a second one when Ian’s grip and stroking

turned foreskin into satin ecstasy, a caress that had him bucking, hands tightening on the
counter, mind in chaos until his attention jerked upward, away from the sight of Ian giving him a
hand job.

Sapphire-blue eyes met his in the mirror, bringing thoughts of another pair exactly like them.

Ianthe beneath him, above him, tormenting him.

Guilt crashed into him. Mierda, he didn’t want to lose her, even for this. Especially not over

this. He was straight and this was an aberration.

Liar.
“Fuck!” He pulled away, escaping, putting his back to the wall as he faced Ian, breath fast

from effort and emotion. Embarrassment, guilt, confusion, desire, all of it flaming across his
chest, crawling up his neck and into his face in a wave of heat. “Ianthe—”

“Is the reason I’m here. She wants this to happen.”
Ian crowded closer in complete confidence. Arms extending, palms against the wall, turning

his body into a cage.

Miguel opened his mouth. But the touch of Ian’s lips to his prevented any words from

escaping. It was the mirror of that first kiss with Ianthe, only in reverse. Instead of him
dominating as she was held prisoner against the table, he was the one left with no escape, the
one overwhelmed by the forceful thrust of a tongue against his, wicked strokes that mimicked
the plunge and retreat of a cock.

He tried not to touch, not to willingly participate, but the fight was futile from the start. Fisted

hands unclenched, reached, fumbled at snap and zipper, freed… Found.

Ian was uncircumcised, his equal in length and girth, in wet, arousal-slick cock head.
Hips bucked.
Ian’s.
His.
Cocks spasmed, jerked.
Miguel moaned. Helpless in the onslaught of lust unleashed. Heat poured into him where

mouths met, and he swallowed it, felt consumed by it.

Why had he ever denied this need? This hunger for another man’s touch?
There was a reason for it, a valid one, but it remained elusive, the net he was using in an

attempt to catch it riddled with holes burned into it by Ian’s proximity and touch. Ian’s mouth ate
at his, as if he was equally starved. His hand dropped away from the wall and down to Miguel’s
cock.

Ecstasy arrived with firm fingers gripping his shaft, with the brush of a thumb over the head.

And then Ian used his hand to hold their cocks together.

Miguel’s buttocks clenched and he thrust, his hand mimicking Ian’s so that their cocks were

pressed together, caught in tight fists of pleasure, one heightened by each slide of foreskin
over throbbing penis.

Sensation dominated, everything else fading, reality becoming black-rimmed, narrowing until

vision disappeared as he came. And came, and came. As if a lifetime of pent-up need was
being exorcised. And still his hips continued to jerk, pressing his cock to Ian’s. His mouth
clinging to Ian’s and his hand tightening in a demand that he not be the only one to lose control.

On a moan Ian surrendered, his semen a hot strike against skin, a victory that made Miguel

feel as masculine as when he was with Ianthe, that made him feel totally alive, beyond good—
until he opened his eyes and saw Ian.

Fuck! What had he done?
He pushed Ian away. Shock, shame. Embarrassment slamming into him as his hand came

away wet from his own come on another man’s chest.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment.”
As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. They made him sound like a hysterical

girl. Shit! And that made him sound like a chauvinistic pig.

He jerked the shower door open and stepped into the stall, slammed the door behind him

like a shout, both denying what had happened and telling Ian to keep out, though doing it didn’t
stop his thoughts or cut off his body’s remembered pleasure. It didn’t allow him to abdicate all
responsibility.

He’d left the door open. He’d been standing there naked, jerking off, imagining Ianthe though

the hard-on had come at seeing Ian.

There’d been chemistry between them. He couldn’t deny it, and Ian…
Ian had no choice but to obey a command backed by will. He left the bathroom, the familiar-

bond like an invisible hand shoving him toward the door.

Fighting it burned his strength, reduced what he’d gained through sexual contact with Miguel,

but he resisted Miguel’s will long enough to clean himself in the kitchen before stepping outside.

The compulsion fell away, its loss allowing space for other emotions. Anger at being cast

out. Satisfaction at finding Miguel desired him. Regret, guilt at letting his own predatory nature
and hunger control his actions. Determination to break through Miguel’s barriers again and have
their relationship acknowledged.

He’d pushed today, but Miguel had left the door open. Miguel needed him, not all the time,

but then this masculine aspect wasn’t his preferred one.

Ian sat on the step outside Miguel’s door. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun,

embraced the feel of it against his skin as he waited for Miguel to emerge.

He understood in a way he hadn’t until coming fully into this world, that to be human was to

be imbued with emotions, many of them uncomfortable, especially for a being whose existence
had once been defined primarily by only two emotions—the pleasure that came with feeding
and the fear that came with calling a demon lord master.

Was it worth it? To trade one type of enslavement for another? To give up immortality for

the brief span of a human lifetime?

He remembered the longing that had grown over the centuries, rooted in glimpses into lives

intensely lived, rich and full, layered as if to make up for their very shortness. A desire that now
had a focal point, a mortal whose life he was bound to by magic. Miguel. Yes. It was worth it.
And though he could survive by feeding from others, he didn’t want to. He wanted Miguel. More,
he wanted Miguel to come to him as willingly, as freely as he’d crossed to Ianthe when she’d
stepped into the Were’s backyard.

Behind him a door opened. Ian opened his eyes and stood, half turning, managing not to

crowd into Miguel’s personal space, thumbs hooking into his back pockets to keep his hands off
Miguel.

Miguel’s gaze dropped—unwillingly—to the front of Ian’s shorts. Christ. He’d convinced

himself—

Liar.
“Look—”
What the fuck was he supposed to say? I’m sorry for what happened in the bathroom? For

freaking out afterward?

He wanted to be, but shit, he could feel his cock hardening even as he was hyperaware of

the open space and the possibility that any one of the guys he knew in the complex—cops who
had observation honed down to a sixth sense—might be close to a window.

“Look—” he started again, faltered again.
“Don’t sweat it.” Said in an even voice, one not completely matched by Ian’s expression.

“Tell Ianthe what happened, or not. It’s up to you. But like I said, she won’t care.”

Perversely, it made him mad to hear it. To think maybe this was a game they played. An

adult, sexual version of twins trading places with one another.

“She won’t care because you like to share…” He stumbled over the world lovers,

substituted, “Guys.”

“No, you’re the first.” The smile accompanying it was purely sexual. “And hopefully the last.

We’ve never shared a woman, either. And I wouldn’t recommend suggesting it to her.”

He wasn’t even tempted, not that he hadn’t watched his share of woman-on-woman porn,

but it wasn’t the same turn-on, wouldn’t be any kind of turn on if it meant sharing Ianthe. Jesus.
He had no right to feel possessive of her, but he did.

“I need to get back to work.” Escape to work.
“No problem. I’ll catch up with Ianthe later.”
Not here. Don’t come back here, I don’t want to see you again. The words were right there,

but he couldn’t force himself to say them, and it wasn’t only because of Ianthe. “I’ll tell her you
came by.”

But would he tell her what had happened? He shoved his fists into his pockets, refusing to

answer the question even for himself.

* * * * *

“This was nice,” Khemirra said, hearing the purr in her voice but too sated to care how

catlike she sounded. Damn but she loved being with Conner—even when he got her all riled up.

Warm skin. Warm heart. Warm smile. Hot, hot cock.
She didn’t want to roll off him and let him leave, either her channel or the bed. And despite

his saying he needed to head back to work, his hands stroked over her buttocks, settling on her
thighs and holding them splayed on either side of his.

She leaned down, nibbled on his bottom lip. “You having trouble getting up, Conner?”
He grinned, lifted his hips off the mattress. “Does it feel like that’s a problem for me?”
“Oh, guess I didn’t notice.”
He laughed and rolled, trapping her beneath him. “Insulting me, baby? Telling me you can’t

feel my dick inside you?” He thrust hard, loving the catch in her breath, the way desire
darkened her eyes and a little moan of pleasure escaped.

“Could be that’s what I’m saying.”
“Liar.”
Jesus, he was crazy in love with her. Their spontaneous games challenged him, kept him on

the razor edge of anticipation.

They struggled, with her bucking and writhing beneath him, making him work to get her

wrists pinned above her head.

When he’d managed it, he bit her neck. Used his weight to subdue her in an assertion of

dominance, and then the lift of his hips and the threat of his cock abandoning her slit to make
her whimper with need.

“Want to recant that statement about not noticing my cock?” he asked, breathless, not from

his exertions but from the effort it took to keep from slamming his dick home again.

“I take it back. Please, Conner, once more before you go.”
He slid all the way in, slow this time. “You feel so good.”
White heat filled his head. His lips captured hers, ending conversation. The only

communicating that needed to get done could be handled by the thrust and retreat of his cock.
By the slap of flesh against flesh until Khemirra’s soft moans gave way to a cry of orgasm and
his own followed in a rush of semen that left him faced with an even greater struggle to get
back to work.

He rolled so she was once more on top of him, and grinned. “I ever tell you how much you

remind me of a cat basking in the sun.”

It got the desired effect. She lifted her head and bared her teeth, gave a low, rumbling

growl, the wolf flashing in her eyes. “You want me to bite you?”

His hands smoothed over her back, palms against sleek muscle. “Damn, I don’t want to go.

I want to stay here and play with you all day.”

“I’d like that but I’m heading back over to Seraphine’s house with my camera. She’s got an

amazing collection of tribal masks.”

“Seraphine?”
“Dylan’s Witch.”
He laughed. He hadn’t remembered the name but Trace had filled him in on the encounter

with her while he and Dylan were working a case. “That’s going to be a fun show.”

“Oh yeah. As a matter of fact, I swung by Inner Magick after I left Seraphine’s. Aislinn and I

got to talking and one thing led to another, and then to the idea of meeting up at Lily’s Place.
Us. Her and Trace. Miguel and Ianthe. Maybe Storm and her cousin Sophie with their significant
others, if they can make it. And Dylan with…drum roll please…Seraphine.”

Conner laughed outright. “Devious. I take it Aislinn told you how Dylan and Storm set Trace

up that night, and Miguel and I went along as backup?”

Khemirra rolled her eyes. “With no thought of getting a piece of ass for yourselves. Right.”

She nipped his jaw. “You serve as backup for any more guy friends, you better remember
you’re taken.”

He touched his mouth to hers. “Call me pussy whipped.”
Her laugh was a sound of pure pleasure. “What is it with you and cats?”
“You bring it out in me. Seraphine in on this? Or is she going to get her own surprise?”
“She’s a witch. I’m not sure we can surprise her, so I intend to ask. We just have to set a

date.”

“Do it. I’ll get Miguel onboard. Trace going to manage Dylan?”
“Yes.”
He was torn between wanting to know and not wanting to know. “Did you talk to Seraphine

about the medallion and Ianthe?”

“Yes.”
“What’d she say?”
“Same thing I did. It’s best not to interfere.”
Push? Or don’t push? Something in her expression told him he’d be a hell of a lot happier if

he let it go, but he couldn’t turn off his cop nature, especially with Miguel both his partner and
his friend. “What is she?”

Khemirra grimaced. “Was, Conner, remember that. She’s human now though she’s bound to

Miguel.”

His heartbeat ratcheted up and it wasn’t from having Khemirra lying on top of him. “Tell me.”
“Demon.”
“Fuck!”
“Yeah, I imagine Miguel will be doing a lot of it. Seraphine said ‘think succubus’. And before

you ask, yeah, Ianthe might suck him dry, but it shouldn’t be any worse than I do to you.”

Khemirra nibbled kisses against his lips and along his jaw. It loosened the tight band around

his chest but didn’t eradicate it. He searched his mind for what he knew about succubi. The only
think he came up with was they fed on sex. Not exactly a relief considering how many guys at
the BBQ couldn’t seem to keep their eyes off Ianthe.

“You’re sure she won’t hurt him?” There were a hell of a lot of ways to get hurt, and having

a wife who slept around was right there at the top of the list.

“Emotionally? I believe she wants permanency with Miguel. But they’ve got to work that out

for themselves, same as you and I did.”

“And physically?”
Another grimace said she was hoping he hadn’t caught the nuance. “Physically, she could be

a danger to him if she’s mortally wounded. She might take his life in order to save her own.”

Not happening. Not on my watch.

* * * * *

The bullpen was empty but a stack of crime scene photos waited for Miguel on his desk. It

prompted him to grab a binder for the murder book before sitting down. He was glad to have
something to focus on, anything other than what had happened with Ian.

Fuck. His mind kept denying, but his cock screamed a different message. He reached down,

adjusting himself.

“That good a lunch break, huh? You traveling down memory lane or hurting because Ianthe

wasn’t at your place?”

Christ! He jumped like a kid getting caught masturbating, heat racing up his neck and flaming

through his cheeks at Conner’s sudden appearance. And that reaction sent secondary panic
skidding through him because Conner knew a lot of the guys he’d been shooting hoops with
when Ian showed up.

“No comment.” He tried for casual, further deflecting by standing and grabbing the jacket

hung on the back of his chair. “What do you say we hit the outreach center? Might find the
answer to how Ricky went from junkie prostitute to lifeguard living with Alves and company.”

“Might as well. Flip for who drives?”
Miguel pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Heads.”
It landed on the desk tails.
He took the passenger seat, determined to keep his mind on the case and away from Ian

and Ianthe, only succeeding when they got within sight of the center. “Those bikes look familiar
to you?”

“Third time’s the charm, at least for us. I’d say our boys just got unlucky.”
“There’s going to be a back entrance to this place.”
“You want to go in that way? Or take the front?”
“I’ll go around.”
“Give me a call when you’re in position.”
They split, Conner noting the surrounding area while he waited for Miguel’s call. The

economy had shut down a lot of businesses, but a grocery store survived, along with a barber
shop, Chinese restaurant, a pawn shop and three places that gave payday advances. Legalized
loan sharking.

His phone buzzed. He read the text message. N Place. Door locked this side.
He replied, Going in, before pocketing the cell.
An older woman looked up, making him as a cop instantly. “May I help you?” Cooperative

but not jumping up and down with enthusiasm at having him there, probably because visits from
the police had a way of scaring off clientele.

Conner introduced himself, the word Homicide melting some of the wary reserve in a way

saying “Vice” rarely did. She stood, expression concerned. “Let me get Rueben. He’s in
charge.”

Rueben was about what Conner expected, a lean guy with muscles decorated by tats and a

street look that said “been there, done that, motherfucker, and I have the scars to prove it”. It
was a look guaranteed to deliver credibility when it came to at-risk teens, either gay or straight.

“ID,” Rueben said, aggressive, protective, drawing a line in the sand right away.
Conner pulled his badge, putting it on the counter in a show of confident legitimacy rather

than doing a quick flash that’d get Rueben’s hackles up earlier than they needed to be. He was
guessing that’d happen soon enough.

“Delores said you’re with Homicide.”
Conner put his badge away. “My partner and I are investigating the death of Ricky Moreno.”
The receptionist have a soft gasp, followed by a sob and a whispered, “Oh no. Dios, no.

Not Ricardo.”

Rueben sagged, tough guy attitude slipping off his shoulders in a show of defeat. “How?”
“Took four in the chest on Diamond Beach.”
Rueben shook his head, as if denial and disbelief could make it go away. “I saw him maybe

three weeks ago. He and David came by.”

“David Alves?”
“Yeah.”
“This where they first met?”
A hint of us against them returned to Rueben’s expression. “If you think David had anything

to do with Ricky’s death, then you’re wasting your time.”

“Why? They a couple?”
“You’ll have to ask David. Far as I know they’re both adults.”
Not a no; they were making progress. “I intend to ask him as soon as I catch up to him.

What brought them here?”

“They came to talk to the kids, as an example of how it’s possible to turn your life around.

You’ve run their rap sheets, you know the shit they were into. Drugs. Prostitution. Risky
behavior. Society may be more accepting when it comes to being gay, but a lot of families
aren’t. Truth is, oftentimes the kids themselves aren’t cool with it, not with the peer pressure to
be like everyone else. Gay teens are at higher risk of suicide. That’s what we do here, try to
give kids a place it’s safe to be themselves and accept themselves.”

It was the perfect segue. Conner took it. “And David carries on the work by letting kids

move in with him?”

The fight returned to Rueben. “What you’re really wondering is what’s in it for him and you’re

thinking it’s a hustle for sex.”

“And you wouldn’t wonder if it was older guy, younger girls? All of them with a record for

prostitution?”

“Fuck this, man. David’s a good guy, offering his place to kids who’ve earned it by getting

clean and staying that way. He’s not pimping them and he’s not screwing them.”

He turned away. Conner said, “You want to cop an attitude, figure I’m just another white

straight guy with a grudge against gays, that’s your problem. My problem is trying to figure out
who killed Ricky, and right now you’ve got a couple of kids here I need to talk to. You can
smooth the way, let this go down without a lot of drama, or my partner and I can sit on this
place and wait for them to come out, which will mean dragging their families down to the
station. Your choice.”

Muscles bunched beneath Rueben’s shirt in pissed-off surrender. “Which kids?”
“Rogelio and Angelo. Their bikes are out front.”

“What have they got to do with Ricky’s murder?”
“Maybe nothing at all. Won’t know until we’ve talked to them. My partner’s got the other exit

covered, in case they bolt.”

Rueben’s nostrils flared at being backed into a corner. “We’ll do this in one of the meeting

rooms. I’m going to be there.”

Conner had no problem with that. “Fine.” Though he didn’t budge until he saw Rueben

shepherd the boys down the short hallway behind the reception desk and into a room on the
left. He called Miguel, rather than text. “Come on around. The footrace can wait for another
day.”

Miguel joined Conner, stiffening in surprise when he stepped inside the room and saw

Rueben. Fuck, everything about this case was like talons raking up the past. And here was
Leon’s lover, years after Julio was buried.

Rueben crossed to him, touched his right shoulder to Miguel’s, a slap on the back

accompanying the hug. “Long time no see, ese. Would have gone down easier if you’d come in
instead of your partner.”

“I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Now you do. Don’t be a stranger.”
Miguel took a seat across from the two kids. Both were Hispanic, one built like a football

player, the other uncomfortably pretty.

Rueben returned to his earlier position, standing behind the boys.
With a glance, Conner signaled for Miguel to lob the first question. “Names?”
The big kid gave his as Rogelio Ward.
“ID?”
“Don’t got none.”
Conner pulled his phone, aimed. The kid didn’t flinch when his picture was taken.
“Name still good?” Conner asked, stepping in, changing the format up so they’d be tag-

teaming the kids.

“Yeah. This is Angelo Martino. Angel. He don’t talk much.”
“¿Esta su nombre?” Miguel asked.
“Si.” The kid’s voice was soft, subdued, his focus on the table.
“ID,” Conner said.
The kid shook his head. Reluctantly obeyed when Conner told him to look up, his body giving

a little jerk as the picture was taken, his head ducking immediately afterward, longish hair
forming a partial curtain to shield his face.

“What were you doing over at David Alves’ house?” Miguel asked.
“Hanging. Playing videos,” Rogelio answered.
“Hanging with who?”
“The guys. Jesus. Antonio. The others.”
Conner leaned forward. “So why take off when we showed up?”
Rogelio’s expression conveyed the word duh. He said, “Cops come around. You leave

before they can hassle you.”

“When’d you see Ricky Moreno last?”

“Yesterday.”
“Early? Late?”
“Dinnertime.”
“Where?”
“David’s house.”
“When did you leave?”
“A little while after.”
“What time?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t look at the clock.”
“Who was there when you left?”
“Everybody.”
“Names,” Miguel said.
“David. Ricky. Jesus. Antonio. Orozco. Enrique. Like I said, everybody.”
“And they were all there when you left.”
“Yeah.”
Truth or lie? Miguel was betting lie because the kid was expending a lot of effort to make

eye-contact with whoever asked him a question.

“You sure about that?” Conner’s voice was pure disbelief.
Rogelio’s gaze swung to him. “Yeah.”
Miguel directed his attention at Angelo. “¿Verdad?”
He didn’t look up. “Si.”
“You have anything to add?”
A shake of his head, sending his long hair swinging, served as an answer.
They went another couple of rounds, a variation of the same questions, changing them up

and adding a few new ones without getting anything useful.

Finally Conner said, “Addresses.”
Rogelio rattled one off, added, “Angelo stays at my place mostly.”
They released the kids. No reason to hold them.
Rueben pulled Miguel into another hug at the door. “See you around, ese.”
In the car, Conner said, “My take, kid was lying about some of it, maybe all of it. Yours?”
“The same.” Though it was possible the eye contact was all attitude.
“He was covering for someone, same as the other kids seemed to be doing. My money’s on

David Alves.”

“That’s where I’d put mine. We could pull the trigger, make a concentrated effort to have

him found and brought in, but my vote is for holding off a little longer.”

“I’m with you there. Let’s head in, talk to Vice and see if there’s anything on their radar

screen about Alves running prostitutes, see if Angel and Rogelio have rap sheets, spend some
time on Facebook and looking at dating and escort sites before heading to FlashBang. Sound
like a plan?”

“Works for me.”
Though hours later, after coming up with nothing, Miguel was more than ready to leave the

station.

Chapter Seven

A black bouncer with a shaved head sat on a barstool outside the door to FlashBang. He

was broad-shouldered, shirtless and wearing a vest opened to reveal a muscled chest and
ripped abs.

“That the guy?” Conner murmured as they approached.
“Looks like it.”
“All yours then.”
Miguel flashed his badge. “You Rashard?”
A nod as Rashard slid off the stool. “You the cop who came around here earlier?”
“Yes.” Miguel opened the folder he’d brought with him. The top picture was of Ricky. “You

remember letting this guy in last night?”

Rashard glanced down at it. Shrugged. “I don’t remember him. If he had a club stamp on

him, then I must have checked his ID and let him in. Not my type or I’d have given him a harder
look.”

“So you don’t remember him leaving?”
“No.”
Miguel pulled the second sheet, a collection of mug shots with the pictures Conner had

taken of Angelo and Rogelio added to them. “What about any of these guys?”

Rashard snorted. “Six of them couldn’t pass for twenty-one even if I was on the verge of

going blind. No way would I let them in and I can’t honestly say I remember turning any of them
away before. The one old enough to drink used to come here most nights, but I haven’t seen
him in maybe four, five months.”

About the same time Ricky moved in with Alves. “Just to be clear, which one are you talking

about?”

Rashard touched his finger to David Alves’ picture.
“So you haven’t seen any of these guys, even just hanging around, maybe hooking up with

someone leaving the club?”

He shrugged. “Not the kind of thing I’m here to look for, but none of those kids strike a

memory chord with me.”

“Okay, thanks.”
Miguel closed the file. They entered the club. The energy was dialed down to accommodate

patrons stopping by for after-work drinks rather than showing up to bump and grind in a fevered
search for sex, though there was still a heated vibe to the place.

A couple of men kissed in a booth. Another pair, one of the men with dark hair down to his

buttocks, was on the dance floor, bodies pressed tightly together, reminding Miguel of Ian’s
cock against his and making need flame to life.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt as if doing it would allow the heat to escape. Conner

caught the gesture and misinterpreted it. “Yeah, I agree. Let’s get this done and get out of

here.”

They went to the bar. The guy behind was feminine, his lashes as lush as Ianthe’s, his blue

eye shadow subtly applied and his blond hair worn in a spiky pageboy cut.

“Cops?” he asked.
“Must be the suits,” Conner said.
The bartender didn’t spare him a glance. “What can I do for you?” he asked Miguel,

thrusting out his chest as if there were breasts there instead of tiny hard nipples pressed to a
light-blue tank.

Jesus, what did it mean that he was noticing another guy’s nipples like that? His cock

answered for him, pulsing with the remembered sight of Ian’s, and the tight points of pleasure
his had become in proximity to Ianthe’s brother.

Fuck. He didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to get home, find Ianthe there and bury

himself in her hot channel like it was the only thing he’d ever need, his only reality.

“You Devin?”
“Call me Dev.”
Miguel put the folder on the bar, opened it. Started the line of questioning all over again and

got fewer results. Devin hadn’t noticed Ricky or any of his housemates in the bar the night
before, hadn’t ever seen Angelo or Rogelio or David Alves.

“Jonti here?” Miguel asked, hoping they had better luck with the waitress.
“Over there. The brunette with the killer legs and ass, in the red dress.”
“Thanks.” He started to turn from the bar but Devin stopped him with a touch to the wrist, a

quick stroke of fingers that had him jerking away, panic flashing through him. Mierda! Was it
obvious he’d been turned on by another man? That he’d come with another man’s hand on his
dick and his own hand returning the caress?

“Aren’t you going to leave me your number, in case I remember something?” Devin asked,

the pout in his voice saying he didn’t like the way Miguel jerked away though the question and
the eye-to-eye contact said all could be forgiven, later, and in a private discussion.

Miguel could feel sweat forming on his skin. He passed over a card, hyperaware of Conner

next to him, witnessing the come-on and the way Devin carried the card to his lips before
tucking it into his back pocket.

A few steps away, Conner said, “If you’re sporting wood and want to bat for the other team

for a while, you got yourself a catcher.”

“Shut up.”
“Just making an observation.”
This was what he didn’t want in his life. Part of why he never wanted to be labeled gay or

bisexual. Pitcher. Catcher. Who was giving and who was receiving, taking it in the ass. He didn’t
want people looking at him, wondering which one of them he was.

Jonti stopped talking to a man sitting at a table when they reached her…him? She appeared

all female, except for the Adam’s apple, and only a high-necked outfit was going to hide that.

“Jonti?” Miguel asked, deciding to think her and shut the door firmly to all questions about

sexuality.

“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Torres. This is my partner, Detective Stern. Can we have a minute of your

time?”

“Definitely.” She squeezed her customer’s shoulder. “Be right back, hon.”
They went as far as an empty table. “What can I do for you?”
“You were working last night?”
“Yes.”
He showed her the picture of Ricky and knew by Jonti’s expression that maybe they were

about to get a break in the case.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes. How well did you know him?”
“I don’t. But I saw him last night and thought, bad breakup. He just had that look, you know?

Puppy-dog sad and angry at the same time. Like he wanted to forget and maybe prove he
didn’t need whoever he’d been with by doing it with someone new.”

“Did he hook up with anyone?”
“Not that I noticed. He danced some but wasn’t with anyone in particular. Had a few beers,

and was just ordering another when he got a text message. As soon as he read it he told me
not to bother with the drink and he left, or I assume he left. He was heading toward the
entrance.”

“What time?”
She pursed her lips. “A few minutes after midnight, maybe five, ten at the most. The place

was packed and I was wearing new heels last night. Cheap knockoffs that were giving me a
blister. Right before I talked to him, I checked my watch to see how much longer I had so I’d
know if I could make it without changing shoes.”

“You didn’t get a glimpse of the text message?”
“No.”
“Did you talk to him at all?”
“Just the usual, same as I’d do with anyone. Nothing personal.”
Miguel showed her the other pictures. “What about any of these guys? Ever seen them in

here?”

“Not the kids. They’re total jailbait. The older guy doesn’t look familiar either.”
“How long have you been working here?”
“Three months.”
Miguel gave her his card. “Just in case you think of something.”
They left a few minutes later.
“We might just get this thing wrapped up as soon as we get those phone records,” Conner

said. “My money says the call he got was from David Alves.”

“If Alves is guilty then he’s probably somewhere in the Caribbean by now. We could put

some uniforms on the house and have him brought in for questioning if he hasn’t split.”

“If he’s gone, he’s gone, and we’d just be wasting manpower. I say it’d be better not to

spook him. You gotta figure he’s in contact with the kids. Let’s wait, see if we get anything from
the motel canvass and the phone records before stepping up the effort to talk to Alves.”

“I can go with that.”
They went back to the station, remaining long enough to check for messages. There were a

few pertaining to other cases. They took the time to return calls, open up the murder books on
those cases and update them.

Conner got done first, stood and snagged his jacket. “Time to go home and make a little

music with Khemirra.”

Miguel followed a few minutes later, gathering up the binder and all the loose case material

accumulated through the day. Taking it with him like a crutch to give himself something to focus
on besides figuring out what to tell Ianthe about the encounter with Ian, or whether to tell her
anything at all.

* * * * *

She was home. Sitting on the couch in a nearly transparent pink teddy, one knee bent, the

foot on the cushion, as if she’d been critiquing her newly polished toenails.

Just that fast, he was rock hard. He went to her, dropping the murder book and folders on

the coffee table. Her smile was welcome enough, but when she opened her thighs so he could
see the delicate snaps at the teddy’s crotch, heat flooded him. He reached for the thin material
covering her slit and mound. A tug and a lift and he was looking at smooth folds and stiffened
clit.

Jesus, she was beautiful. She was just what he needed after the encounter with—
Fuck! Don’t go there.
He knelt between her thighs, tore his attention away from her cunt, gaze shifting upward

only to get caught on hard-tipped breasts, the nipples visible, dark temptation pressed to the
thin material. He started to lean down, to latch onto one and suck, stopped himself—barely—
remembering he hadn’t even said hello yet.

His gaze climbed upward and he half expected her to be pissed. She gave him a sultry smile

instead. “Miss me?”

Guilt rippled through him. He opened his mouth, maybe to confess—he wasn’t sure what he

intended but he surrendered whatever it was when she tangled her fingers in his hair and
guided his lips to hers.

Hunger poured into him. His. Hers.
He ate at her mouth, hands going to the strapless teddy, pushing it downward so he could

cup her breasts. Loving the feel of them, the weight. The large, dark nipples that hardened in a
pouted command to be stroked and squeezed, laved and sucked.

His tongue thrust against hers, dominant to her submissive, an assertion of his masculinity

overlaying what had happened with— No, he didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to
compare the two pleasures.

On a moan he forced himself away from her mouth, kissed downward, burying his face

against her breasts. This was what he wanted. All he needed to be happy.

He took a nipple. Bit. The sharp cry and arch of her back, the tightening of her fingers in his

hair a demand for more.

He obeyed. Alternating between the pull of his lips and the press of his teeth. Moving

between breasts until both nipples were love-bruised, so tender it took only the rub of his
tongue, the closing of his mouth on them to have her whimpering, whispering his name.

His hand covered her mound, fingers delving into her slit. She was wet, ready. Sensual feast

and hot heaven alike.

He reared back on his knees, devouring her with his eyes. She was flushed, needy. His.

Wicked temptation and sweet surrender at the same time.

Feminine hands cupped her breasts, lifting the ripe mounds. Her tongue darted out, swirled

over first one areola and then the other. Silently goading him, commanding him, and he
answered that demand, pressed his face to her cunt.

Teeth. Lips. He left his mark on the satin-smooth skin of her inner thighs. Sucked her clit, the

unwanted image of Ian’s cock sliding past mental barriers, adding heat rather than dousing it.

He fucked her with his tongue. Used it against swollen flesh as she bucked and finally

keened in release.

He lifted his face then and found her sloe-eyed in victory, languid where his lust roared

through him like an inferno. “Get on your knees, hands gripping the back of the couch and legs
spread.”

He barely recognizing the terse, raw voice as his own, but nothing could have made him call

back the demand as she drew her legs toward her chest then rolled to her knees on the couch,
complying with slow, feline movements, creating twin pounding heartbeats in his head and dick
at the sight of smooth buttocks and the dark, swollen folds of her cunt.

She was too used to having men at her mercy. Too sure of her power over him, too much

like—

He stood, unzipping, his cock springing free, wet with anticipation. He touched it to her

opening, resisting the screaming need to slam into her and fuck until he came.

She rocked backward. Demand again, but this time he was ready.
He brought the palm of his hand down against one of her buttocks, delivering a sharp slap

that brought searing heat as her channel clamped down on his cock head. He gave her a
second spank, eyes closing briefly at the ecstasy of having her tighten once again on his tip.
Almost hoping she’d defy him, and force him to continue administering punishment.

“I told you yesterday I wasn’t going to let you call the shots.”
Ianthe shivered. In her other aspect, she’d enjoyed giving in to her predatory nature, just as

in this one, she enjoyed Miguel’s mastery though she couldn’t deny her need to test it, to push
him. She rocked backward again, but rather than gaining more of him, his cock left her
altogether, exchanging the heat and stretch of his thick organ for the fire of his palm against her
backside.

Again and again she tested him. Each of the punishments binding her more thoroughly to

him, replacing memories of another lord whose will she served without pleasure with this
master’s, whose pleasure became her will to serve.

Every attempt on her part to seize control was rebuffed, forcing the battle to start afresh.

He defined movement and moment, and she subjugated herself, yet in doing it, fusion came. A
joining of bodies so complete and intense that when he finally allowed her to orgasm, following
her in release, she sobbed at the closeness she felt to him, the tender care with which he
guided her back down to the sofa and curled around her, his hand cupping her mound, his leg
thrown over hers.

They lay in drowsy contentment for a long time before rising and showering together. She

had the ability to harden him again, and as she ran lathered hands over his body, she was
tempted.

Somehow they managed to leave the water and the bathroom. In the bedroom she donned

one of his shirts, only to have him laugh and pull her to him, his hands fisted in the material.

“You can wear it, but only this way.” He unbuttoned it so it hung freely, allowing him to look

and touch at will.

“I bought takeout food,” she told him. “It’s in the refrigerator. Italian. Do you like it?”
“Love it.”
She made her way to the kitchen, pleased and relieved. She’d hated parting with any of the

cash, not wanting to have to ask the Were for more, but as evening approached, it had become
important to her that she take care of more than just Miguel’s sexual needs.

Miguel set the table and got their drinks as she placed the food in serving dishes, heating it

before carrying it from the kitchen. As they ate, they talked, getting to know each other better
though there were pockets of knowledge they avoided, the largest of which was Ian and what
had happened, and the lesser, the supernatural and his being a witch.

When the meal was done and the dishes dealt with, they returned to the couch, stretching

along its length and facing each other. Miguel’s hand traveled to her side, cupped her hip before
moving to her breast. “I like having you here. I like coming home to you.”

His words sent contented heat spiraling through her. “I like being here for you. I like seeing

to your needs.”

The last came out husky, her labia swelling and channel clenching, her clit stiffening with a

desire that was a mix of male and female aspects. She was beginning to believe the hunger for
sex would continue to ride close to the surface even after she’d been completely sated as Ian.
That the combination of the familiar-bond and her inherent nature meant a continuous craving to
be close to Miguel, to be intimately joined to him.

Neither stopped her from feeling the sharp edge of deception and denial that now separated

them, one of her making and the other, his. Pride kept her from asking him if he’d come home
earlier in the day. As did the desire to have him openly admit what had happened rather than
being prompted to it, shamed into it. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t get closer to a full
sharing of what each of them was at their core.

Her fingers went to a tiny nipple, stroking, circling, feminine pleasure spiking through her at

his small moan and the look that came into his eyes. She knew of the covenants that existed
between many of the races, though they didn’t bind demon behavior because this had never
been part of the dark realm.

Demon presence had never been tolerated here, except to the extent that they were

summoned and used as a tool by a human practicing magic. She knew, from her discussion
with the Were, that Miguel hadn’t been told what Khemirra was, or what Aislinn was, or that
Storm was mated to a Fey.

Those secrets weren’t hers to reveal, not yet, but her own… The spiral of desire in her belly

coiled into a knot of conflicting inclinations. A part of her desperately wanted to tell Miguel
everything, to wipe away the necessary lies she’d woven so there would be no dark shadow
overhanging their happiness and the rightness she felt at being in this world and bound to him.
But the greater part of her feared his reaction, not just that he might reject her as both Ianthe
and Ian, but that he might demand her absence from his life.

Her heart skipped a beat, skittered like a terrified thing newly arrived in the dark realm. All it

took was remembering how things had ended as Ian, and the press of Miguel’s will banishing
that aspect from the apartment, to wither her nerve when it came to a full disclosure of truth.

It frightened her to think what she might become if he cast her off. The instinct to survive

was as strong in her mortal flesh as it had been in her demonic.

She caught herself worrying her bottom lip and freed it, forced herself to take at least one

small step in the direction of complete honesty. “Do you believe in the supernatural?”

“If you’d asked me before Trace met Aislinn, who is definitely psychic, my ‘hell no’ would

have been mostly true. But since then… What brought on that question on?”

She took his nipple between forefinger and thumb, squeezed. Nervousness unconsciously

transformed into something that restored her sense of power with his low moan. And realizing
it, she pulled her hand away, only to have it captured by his and returned.

“Do it again,” he commanded, voice husky.
Denying him was impossible. She took possession of the nipple, tightened her fingers on it,

knowing how intimately pain and pleasure could combine to become an ecstasy of sensation, a
lightning strike of lust and overwhelming need.

“I asked about the supernatural because you must be a witch to have ensnared me so

completely,” she murmured against his lips, grinding her mound and clit against his cloth-
covered erection.

“I could say the same about you.”
He rolled them so she was beneath him. His tongue forged into her mouth, tangled and

twined with hers as his hand reached between their bodies, freeing his cock from the confines
of his shorts.

She hadn’t meant to seduce him but her body welcomed his with a savage clenching, a

hungry need that made continued conversation impossible as he took her hard and fast.
Pounded into her in a rough claiming that ended with her cry of release followed by the hot
flood of his seed filling her. And a joy that came afterward, arriving with his smile as he said,
“See what I mean? I have a hard time holding my train of thought when I’m around you.”

She laughed, because it took effort to remember what they’d been talking about and return

to it. “So you deny being a witch?”

He touched his forehead to hers, expression a mix of amused and abashed, the combination

causing a strange somersaulting of her heart and the curving of her lips upward.

“You want to hear a totally strange story?” Miguel asked, a part of him wishing he could call

the question back as soon as the words were spoken.

“Yes.”
He started at the beginning, with the call to his mother to inform her that her great-

grandfather was dying. And as he talked, it got easier to share the details of his trip to Mexico,
his tatarabuelo’s pronouncement and the weirdness of traveling to Talocan in dreams that were
too real. It seemed perfectly natural to tell her about the visit of the night before and, kissing his
way to her ear, about the cord that might well have been attached to his dick, and how it had
drawn him back and into the tight heat of her slit.

“Like this?” she asked, taking the aggressive role, pushing him to his back and joining his

body to hers.

“Yes,” he moaned, lifting his hips, rock hard and needy, enraptured and willingly ensnared

by her.

“Is it so terrible to be a witch?” she asked, inner muscles tightening on him, delivering

ecstasy.

“Not if it gains me this,” he said, finding he meant it as she began moving up and down on

his shaft.

Ianthe covered Miguel’s mouth with her own so she could take the sounds of his pleasure

inside her as well as the hot spray of his seed. Love. Lust. A hunger for connection that
encompassed everything but could only be fully appeased in moments of physical intimacy. She
couldn’t distinguish one need from another and wondered if it was necessary to do so at all with
her body joined to Miguel’s. He knew the bond existed between them though he didn’t have a
name for it. It was enough for now.

She gave. She took. And he did the same. Hands on her breasts. Fingers tormenting her

nipples until release came in a shimmering wave that moved from her to him and then back
again, leaving her draped over him like the contented cat of a witch’s more common familiar.

As he stroked her back she noticed the stack of materials he’d set on the coffee table.

Reaching over, she touched it. “What’s all this?”

“Work. Probably pointless to bring home given how distracting you are.”
She heard his smile and looked to see it, surprised to discover how much she craved the

sight. “And who demanded that I leave my shirt unbuttoned?”

“My shirt, technically.” His cock pulsed, still semi-hard inside her.
“Yours,” she agreed, meaning more than the shirt, seeing possessiveness flair in his eyes

and feeling it in hands that went to her buttocks, cupped and squeezed as his mouth settled on
hers and conversation was once again delayed by heated kisses.

“Definitely distracting,” he said long, sensuous moments later. “I’ll have to start staying at

my desk a little longer instead of bringing murder books home when it’s my turn to keep them.”

“Murder books?”
“Where we pull together facts and information about a case. Crime scene photos, copies of

reports, rap sheets, etc.”

She glanced at the manila folders. “These are for the murder you were called out on this

morning?”

“Yes.”
“You’ve already solved it?”
He laughed. “Conner and I are good, but maybe not quite that good. We have a person

we’re strongly interested in, but no actual facts linking him to the crime. Not yet anyway.”

She found herself intrigued by his work. “Have you brought all the guilty to justice?”
“No. We’ve got unsolved cases. Every Homicide cop has them.”
“You could use being a witch—”
“Never.”
She let it drop, content for now that he didn’t deny he was one. In the future, perhaps he’d

change his mind and use his witch ability for the sake of delivering justice.

Running a fingertip along the edge of a manila folder, she asked, “Can you talk about this

case?”

His hand tangled in her hair, guiding her mouth to his for another long series of kisses. When

he stopped he said, “If I’m going to tell you about it, I might as well illustrate the story with
pictures and pull the murder book together at the same time. You sure you’re up to this? Some
of the photos are pretty grisly.”

“I can handle it.” The dark realms weren’t for the squeamish.
“Good.” His smile widened. “You’ll have to get off me first.
It took a few moments before she could—before he would let her.
Snuggling next to him, she listened as he went through the events of his day, only stumbling,

tensing when it came to his taking a break—and that omission created a fissure in her psyche,
pitting the contentment of her female aspect against the unsatisfied hunger of Ian’s.

Mending it would require Miguel to know the full truth, to accept her sexuality as well as his

own. She knew he wasn’t yet ready for it.

She pushed need and longing back rather than create strife. Patched over the craving of her

male aspect by concentrating on the images, memorizing faces and details; by totally
immersing herself in Miguel’s desire to bring a murderer to justice.

Doing it brought guilt over deeds committed hundreds of years in the past. And with that

guilt came a desire to somehow redeem herself for those long ago crimes.

Slowly an idea formed. She’d come into this world woefully unprepared to get a job. The

extent of it had been revealed in a conversation with Khemirra.

She had no identification. No work or education history, none of the things a legitimate

employer would require her to produce.

Documents could be had, for a price. Money, if she sought them from a human with no ties

to the supernatural world. A favor-debt otherwise, and that was a lien on her happiness she
wasn’t willing to accept, especially given that it could be dangerous not only to her, but to
Miguel.

She’d toyed with the idea of approaching the half-elf and asking for a job at Inner Magick, a

temporary position allowing her time to accumulate funds. But there was risk too, in coming into
contact with some of the magic practitioners who might enter the shop.

“Maybe I should consider going into police work,” she said, tasting the concept of using her

ability to change sex and appearance as a way of helping Miguel, of sharing his life more fully,
of doing good, as he’d dedicated himself to, and making amends for her demon past.

He put the last of the photographs in the binder and closed it before turning and pulling her

onto his lap. “If you were a cop, you’d end up assigned to the Vice squad, doing undercover
prostitution stings.”

She opened her mouth, caught herself before she asked why humans still sought to punish

sexual acts between consenting adults. “I think I’d like to work undercover.”

Miguel’s hand cupped her breast, fingers zeroing in on her nipple, his lips a breath away

from hers, the need to be inside her riding him again. “Good. Because I’m thinking it’s time for
bed.”

* * * * *

Not sleep. Not until a long time later. After he’d made love to her. Coming on a jagged wave

of ecstasy that milked him of everything he had so the shower they shared afterward was little
more than a hazy precursor to oblivion, and in the morning, the dream…

He traveled toward Talocan. By now the journey was too familiar not to be recognizable.

Instead of the whirlpool gateway of his last passage into the underworld, he was in a cave.

Curiosity, a genetically encoded compulsion to understand what lay beyond death, he didn’t

know what drew him forward even as his grandfather’s warning about returning rang in his ears.

It’s too dangerous.
It’s too dangerous.
Only the second male voice didn’t match the first. It came from behind him and was

accompanied by a sharp tug, a pull that had his cock stiffening even before he turned to see
Ian. “I’ve heard of Talocan. I don’t think it’s wise to go there, not until you understand and
accept what’s between us.”

Ian gestured downward and Miguel’s gaze followed, seeing the same sapphire-blue cord

he’d seen between Ianthe and him. Noticing too that Ian was fully naked, rock hard, the binding
wrapped around his cock though semi-transparent.

“My essence remains sexual, even though I’m as human as you are. That’s why the bond

appears this way.”

Ian’s hand dropped to his cock and Miguel’s throbbed in reaction. He didn’t see the cord

ripple, but he knew the lust he felt pulsed down the length of it to Ian, just as Ian’s flowed along
the length to him. He forced his eyes away from Ian’s rigid penis, saw knowledge as well as
open desire in Ian’s expression.

“You can’t hide the truth here any easier than you did when we were together in the waking

world,” Ian said. “Especially when it comes to the sexual.”

Ian gestured toward the cord again. “This is like a fishing line, cast because you’ve got witch

blood.”

His smile grew predatory and Miguel’s buttocks clenched in reaction to it. “But if I’m caught,

then so are you.”

Ian reached down, using both hands to begin reeling Miguel in. “You want more from me

than we shared this afternoon. Otherwise you’d see Ianthe’s form here and not mine.”

Miguel resisted the pull. Admitting as he did so that it was nominal, a token protest fueled by

guilt and habit, because with each dragging step, need heightened, anticipation rose.

A few steps away from him, Ian stopped using the sapphire-cord to draw him close. A moan

of protest escaped Miguel, forcing him to confront the truth—that a part of him wanted to be
seduced, to abdicate choice and responsibility.

His body was on fire, his skin fevered and his cock so hard he wasn’t sure whether Ian’s

touch would bring pain or pleasure. He knew what Ian wanted, but even in this place of dream
and spirit, he couldn’t bring himself to close the distance between them.

“So be it,” Ian said, stepping forward, crowding Miguel until the cave wall prevented further

retreat. “We can be equals in this or I can play the role of seducer, either will satisfy me as
long as you’re a willing participant in the physical world.”

Ian’s mouth on his silenced any response Miguel might have made, and then there was only

need, brought to a fever pitch as Ian’s lips left his, kissing downward until he crouched in front
of Miguel, his hand wrapped around Miguel’s cock in a prelude to the swirling torment of a
wicked tongue, the wet invitation of parted lips.

Miguel bucked, his fingers tangling in Ian’s long hair as he shuddered at the pleasure of Ian

taking him deep. Sucking. Swallowing. His fist hard and commanding. Controlling. The other
hand tight on Miguel’s testicles, preventing him from orgasming.

“Please,” Miguel moaned, “please.” Hearing in his voice the same tone he’d heard in Ianthe’s

when he’d mounted her on the couch, only instead of granting release, Ian denied it, hands and

mouth leaving Miguel’s cock.

Ian stood, breath coming fast and eyes glittering in challenge. “If you want me to make you

come again, it’ll have to be in the physical world. For now it’s time to leave this place. We’ve
both lingered too long.”

Miguel woke. Hard. Hurting. The sheets kicked off and his cock drenched, as if Ian’s mouth

had just left it. Need pulsed through him, each throbbing beat accentuating the conflicting
desires, the confusion of what he wanted as he rose to his knees, straddling Ianthe. He was
torn between begging her to suck him, knowing in that position it would be easy to pretend she
was Ian, or coming down on top of her, the press of her breasts against his chest and the sight
of her feminine features as he buried his cock in her channel, confirming she was all he desired.

Another time, Ianthe might have waited as he wrestled with his sexuality. Not this one. She

burned with a hunger belonging to her male aspect.

She’d been drawn into the dream with Miguel, acting out in the physical world what her

essence, as Ian, did in the spiritual one. Now masculine needs rode her. Her clit was so hard it
ached, but while she could gain release by thrusting between Miguel’s parted lips, it wouldn’t
satisfy the craving for penetration.

She rolled over, shoving the pillow beneath her hips, presenting Miguel with back and

buttocks. Hiding the more prevalent aspects of her feminine self while still allowing him choice.

“Dios.” It came on a pant and was followed immediately by the plunge of his fingers into her

slit, not to fuck her there but to wet them before pressing them to her back entrance, opening
her, preparing her for his cock. Doing the same with the lubricant he retrieved from the
nightstand drawer.

She moaned. Wanting. Needing. Bunched the pillow for hips canted in acceptance and

invitation. Burned as his cock replaced his fingers, forging into her slowly, filling her.

As he thrust, she became Ian. Ianthe. Ian. Ianthe. An alternating mental illusion, though with

the flash of Ian’s image came a demand for recognition, a command for Miguel to say his name
as the familiar-bond that would one day allow mind-to-mind communication now blended
fantasy and reality. Heightening both with each stroke of Miguel’s cock until the roar of physical
pleasure merged male and female aspects. Until all that mattered was the connection to
Miguel, the ecstasy to be found in joining with him, in being what he needed.

Release came when his fingers took possession of her clit, worked it like a tiny penis,

tumbling them both over the precipice. Raw satisfaction accompanying it with Miguel’s
whispered, “Ian,” as jets of hot semen flooded her dark channel.

Chapter Eight

Miguel closed his eyes as hot water struck his face and sluiced down his body. He needed

to stop hiding in the shower and return to Ianthe, at least long enough to tell her what had
happened with Ian yesterday. He’d already left it too long. His conscience told him that, riding
him now with a new guilt.

In the sexual heat that had come after his dream encounter with Ian, he’d taken Ianthe, but

as he’d done it, there’d been times, with his eyes closed, when he’d imagined it was her
brother. And when he’d come…

Fuck! He could almost taste Ian’s name on his tongue, as if he’d actually called it out in the

white-hot instant of release.

Jesus. He needed to get his head screwed on right.
With an abrupt twist of the faucet the hot water ceased to flow, leaving a stream of icy cold,

a penance, a punishment. But instead of driving the desire to be with another man back behind
an impenetrable wall of denial, it brought a memory, of him standing in the cold spray as a kid,
his thoughts an endless loop. I don’t want to be like Julio. I don’t want to be like Julio. Because
his cock was hard from dreams of Leon, even as his ears were still ringing from the shouts and
tears, the battle that had raged in his family’s living room the evening before, an intervention-
style encounter meant to get Julio to agree to therapy so he could be cured of his
homosexuality.

Mierda, this case had him messed up. If not for it—
Liar. He would have gone hard the minute he met Ian, the same way he had the instant he

laid eyes on Ianthe.

Both of them were temptation incarnate. Pure sex walking—and knew it. Or at least Ian did.

He’d said as much in the cave leading to Talocan.

Miguel shivered. From the cold water? The confused reality? At the weirdness of Ian being

in the dream. At the possibility he’d actually been there, his spirit drawn there by the sapphire-
colored cord.

Miguel shivered again and turned off the water. Stepped from the stall, grabbing a towel

and drying off before wrapping it around his waist.

Coward. But he couldn’t risk letting Ianthe see his cock as he confessed what had happened

with Ian.

He went to her, praying her brother had spoken the truth and she wouldn’t care. He didn’t

want to lose her.

She rose onto her elbows when he reached the bed, the sheet sliding downward, catching

on her nipples. Beneath the towel he began to stiffen, but the sudden shortness of breath as he
sat came from the accelerated race of his heart in fear.

A sticky resistance left over from years of denial trapped the words inside him until he

forced them out in a weak opening. “Your brother stopped by yesterday while I was home for
an hour of personal time.”

He looked away, gathering his courage. Felt the give of the mattress as she sat up, and

grew harder at the touch of her breast to his arm.

She nuzzled his cheek, whispered kisses along his jaw, murmured, “And something

happened between the two of you?”

In the huskiness of her voice, he heard and something sexual happened. His heart skipped

a beat before anger flared, spreading through his chest at trusting Ian when he’d said he was
leaving the choice of telling Ianthe up to him.

Relief cooled that anger. She was still with him. “You already know what happened between

Ian and me.”

“I know Ian. He’s impossible to resist when he sets his mind to seduction. He’s also aware

of how important you are to me.”

Heat moved through Miguel at her words, at remembering the touch of Ian’s cock to his and

the dream-travel cave with Ian crouched in front of him, taking his cock, sucking. “And it doesn’t
bother you?”

“Ian and I are two sides of the same coin.” She lifted her hand, traced his lips with a

forefinger. “You said his name last night, when you woke from your dream and came inside
me.”

Sweat broke out on his skin. He felt out of control.
He willed himself to meet her eyes. Hardened fully at her sultry expression and obvious

acceptance that he’d used her as a substitute for her brother when he took her anally.

Her hand dropped from his face to the towel wrapped around his waist. A moan escaped

rather than a protest when she tugged, exposing his thick length. And then a second one came
when she curled her fingers around his shaft.

His hips lifted as she stroked. “Would it be so terrible to accept you desire both a male lover

and a female one? Is it wrong to experience pleasure with Ian?”

“Yes.” But even he heard the lack of conviction in his voice.
She rubbed her thumb over his cock head, spreading the arousal she found there before

releasing him, her hand going to his chest as her lips brushing against his. “If that’s the truth,
then don’t invite Ian inside if you come home at lunchtime. I won’t be here, but I’m sure he’ll be
waiting for you on the top stair.”

* * * * *

He left for work after they’d made love. Ianthe rose. She didn’t know whether or not he

would return at lunchtime, hadn’t intended to challenge him at all.

It had just happened. Not calculation, but impulse, emotion. And underneath, the hunger, the

need of her male aspect to feed as fully as her female one, but more even than that.

The familiar-bond was growing stronger, as evidenced by her appearing as Ian in Miguel’s

dream travel to Talocan and being aware of it, able to converse with him there, pleasure him in
that spirit-realm as she also took his cock into her mouth in the physical world, and then
afterward, by the blending of fantasy and reality as his cock moved in and out of her.

She felt an increasing need to reveal the full truth of what she was to Miguel. An urgency

that felt like a rope tangled into a knot encasing her heart, tightening and compressing so it
sped up in fear.

Conscience? Or bond-driven compulsion? Or simply that she was anxious to be rid of the

secrets that might drive them apart? Her desire to be with him had only strengthened as he
pieced together the murder book. His dedication and determination to bring the guilty to justice
added respect and admiration to the list of emotions she felt when it came to him.

She wanted Miguel to feel those same things about her, was desperate for the time when

he would see her as more than a sexual being. The irony of that made her smile as she left the
apartment.

Both excitement and trepidation at what she was about to do slowly filled her as she headed

toward the bus stop. There was risk involved. It would deplete her store of energy to change
into a male teenager who didn’t look like a younger version of Ian, and then change into Ian.
She might not have enough strength to become Ianthe without feeding.

If Miguel didn’t come home for lunch—
Her steps faltered but she refused to turn back. This wasn’t only about helping Miguel solve

a crime. It was about her own redemption.

* * * * *

Conner glanced up as Miguel entered the room, grinned and said, “You look like a guy

who’s been ridden hard and put away wet.”

Dios. He didn’t know the half of it.
Miguel crossed to his desk and set the murder book down. “Anything new?”
“Nope.”
That meant talking to cab and bus drivers to see if they’d picked Ricky up when he left

FlashBang. It meant stopping in at the places near the club that had security cameras, in case
they’d captured something on them. And if all else failed, looking for footage that covered any
of Diamond Beach, on the off chance there was a picture of Ricky with his murderer.

“A day of pounding the pavement then,” Miguel said, rolling his shoulders to loosen them.
“That about sums it up, except you get a reprieve, such as it is. Wilson left a message. The

autopsy has been bumped up to eleven, a nice little excursion for you before lunchtime.”

* * * * *

The role was unlike any he’d ever played. It was more challenging than he’d thought it would

be as Ianthe, when predatory instincts weren’t at the forefront of their personality.

He found it difficult to find the right blending of personality traits, to suppress most of his

innate sexuality and yet leave enough in place so the boys around him would respond—opening
up their reality instead of their mouths and asses—to him, or rather, to the teen Ianthe had
become, Amador.

The name’s meaning of lover had appealed to her, encapsulating both the crimes she’d

committed as demon, and the hopes she now held as human. In the past that both male and
female aspects had shared, boys like Antonio and Orozco, Angelo, Rogelio and Enrique, had
been considered men.

At sixteen and seventeen they would already have wives and children, and the entitled

among them, mistresses, as well as servants willing to warm their beds. Homosexuality aside,
seducing them in order to gain information wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow, much less a moral

objection, because of their age.

In this time period, the teens were no less sexual creatures. Their pheromones were thick in

the air. Rogelio and Enrique exchanging heated kisses and carnal touches, while the auras
belonging to Orozco and Antonio spiked with lust each time they glanced in his direction.

A visit to the thrift shop to buy shorts, flip-flops and a cheap bicycle had provided the props

needed. The space between a Dumpster and a concrete wall had afforded enough privacy to
make the transition—though he hadn’t been able to change the sapphire-blue of his eyes, the
windows to his soul.

After hiding Ianthe’s clothing, and what he’d need later as Ian, it had been only a matter of

going to Sheridan Street and waiting to encounter one of Ricky Moreno’s roommates. He hadn’t
considered that teenage boys might not rise with the sun as they had in the past, when work
and duty demanded it.

Hours passed, much of it sitting in the shade, watching the house. Some of it spent circling

the block on the bicycle, and it was on one of those rides he’d encountered Angelo and Rogelio.

Language was no problem for him. Like the knowledge to read and write that had

accompanied him into this world, he retained the ability to communicate.

Angelo hadn’t welcomed his joining them, his aura had spiked with small slivers of jealousy,

but Rogelio had, and from there the rest had come easily. Or mostly so, he amended, eyes
flicking to the TV screen and the game that seemed to consume the boys’ attentions.

He’d have to leave soon, in order to become Ian in the hopes Miguel would accept his own

bisexuality and come home for lunch. His gaze returned to Angelo, whose pretty exterior and
shy demeanor served as camouflage, hiding the mental illness evident in his aura.

Mention of David Alves had colored Angelo’s aura with love. Mention of Ricky, with fear and

the tightening of his hands on the stained, green knapsack in his lap.

He’s one to watch.
David shuffled into the doorway, movement and disheveled appearance in synch with an

aura awash with grief and regret and guilt, with pain so intense that Ian, as Amador, tried to
block the sight of it though looking into David’s face was equally difficult. This wasn’t a man
who’d killed someone he loved. It was a gut read, unsubstantiated by fact, though he felt
certain of it.

Instinct had him freeing some of his nature, directing enough of it at David to pierce the fog

of overwhelming emotion and make him aware of Amador sitting on the floor, his back against
the couch. To have him crossing the distance, crouching down to introduce himself, and as they
shook hands, Ian kept the fascination going so the physical contact extended beyond what was
normal, long enough to see who cared that, in his grief, David might seek a lover’s comfort.

Jealousy flared in Orozco’s aura, tepid and pale compared to that of Angelo’s. And where

longing was also prevalent in Orozco’s aura along with love, it was possessiveness that colored
in the remainder of Angelo’s.

Tamping down on his nature, Amador released David’s hand. Standing when David did,

anxious to become Ian and return to Miguel. Anxious, too, for there to be truth between them,
for Miguel’s full acceptance so he could share what he’d learned and openly be part of Miguel’s
life.

* * * * *

Miguel stepped out of the building and into heat, fresh air and sunshine. He was glad the

autopsy was done—and that he hadn’t lost his breakfast watching it.

A crime scene, no problem. But scalpels slicing through skin and things being pulled out…
Jesus. He lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes, giving himself a few minutes to soak

in life and get the stink of sanitized death out of his nostrils before calling Conner.

“Anything good?” Conner asked.
“Evidence of recent sexual activity.”
“Tell me he caught some sperm in his ass.”
The question tightened Miguel’s sphincter and sent a flash of panic through him that had

nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the thought of having someone ask that
same question about him.

“There’s sperm.”
“Hot damn. Wilson think it was consensual sex?”
“Definitely. No ripping. No tearing. Lack of a condom, coming on the heels of getting the text

message, suggests someone he trusted, most likely Alves, rather than casual, high-risk sex.”

“Looking that way. Anything else?”
“A bullet in good enough shape for Ballistics to match it to a gun if we get our hands on

one.”

“This is music to my ears. We’re close to putting this one to bed. Speaking of which, you

heading home for lunch?”

Was he? His heart rate sped up.
I don’t want this. But when he closed his eyes in an attempt to shore up his resistance, he

saw Ian, bare-chested and obviously aroused.

His cock hardened fully. I don’t want this changed into Just once. “Yeah, I’m going back to

my place.” He could no longer deny the need, the curiosity.

The tightness in his chest loosened when he pulled up in front of the apartment and the

basketball court was empty. Not a cop or fireman or neighbor in sight, just Ian, sitting on the
top step, wearing the same cutoffs.

Miguel got out of the car, aware of the way his erection pushed aggressively, noticeably,

against the front of his pants as he headed toward his apartment and Ian.

Ian’s gaze flicked downward, his lips curving upward. It might as well have been the caress

of a hand.

Just this once, to satisfy the curiosity, to prove I prefer women. Lie and truth combined. He

knew he didn’t have to choose one or the other. He could have both with Ianthe and Ian.

Miguel was struggling for breath by the time he got to his front door, tense as if the entire

world watched him, waited to see what choice he’d make as Ian remained seated.

“You want to come in?” The words sounded immediate, like the pounding beat of his heart in

his head.

“You know what’ll happen if I do.”
Reminder. Forced acknowledgement. A chance to recant, to revoke the invitation.
“Yes.”
A wave of need rushed through Miguel with the admission.

Ian got to his feet, sapphire-blue eyes predatory, promising there’d be no room for

hesitancy or awkwardness.

Miguel unlocked and opened the door, both of them entering the apartment.
It was shades of his bringing Ianthe home only he wasn’t the one in control. As soon as the

door closed behind them, Ian’s mouth was on his, his tongue probing, demanding entrance.

On a moan, Miguel opened for him, his cock already pressed hard to Ian’s, desperate for

the touch of naked skin to naked skin. His tongue meeting the thrust of Ian’s, each heated rub
of one to the other sending a spike of need through his penis.

Ian crowded him against the door and Miguel was grateful for the wood against his back as

Ian’s hands went to the front of his pants. Unbuckling. Unsnapping. Unzipping.

His cock sprang free and Ian took possession of it in a fisted hand while the other pressed

between Miguel’s thighs, capturing his testicles.

Miguel bucked, feared he might disgrace himself by coming then and there.
Ian’s hands tightened, preventing it.
Dios. He liked the ruthlessness, the pain delivered by another man’s hand. The fevered lust

that chased away guilt and fear of consequences.

There was no gentleness but he didn’t need it. There was no talk and he didn’t want it. This

was what he’d come home for. Sex.

Raw.
Carnal.
Liberating.
Ian’s mouth lifted from his. “I think I’ll finish what I started last night, in the cave leading to

Talocan.”

Shock cleared Miguel’s mind but only for the instant it took for Ian to crouch in front of him,

the hand wrapped around Miguel’s cock guiding it to masculine lips.

Miguel shuddered, hips jerking, palms flat against the door. He fought to remain standing in

the face of Ian’s sensual onslaught, as Ian took his cock, sucking, swallowing, his hand
controlling the depth. Tightening each time Miguel neared the point of no return, reducing him to
a state of helpless need and shorn pride, where it seemed perfectly normal to plead to be
allowed to come in another man’s mouth.

“Please,” Miguel moaned, “please.” Uncaring that he sounded the same way he loved to

make Ianthe sound before allowing her to climax.

Erotic fear whispered along the base of his spine and tightened his balls, that Ian would

deny him as he had in the semi-reality of the cave leading to Talocan. But instead of ending the
physical contact as he had in the shared dream, Ian stroked the skin between scrotum and
anus as he swallowed on Miguel’s cock head.

Ecstasy rocketed through Miguel.
He came on a long, low moan, unable to hold back anything.
And still it didn’t satisfy a lifetime of denied craving.
He made no protest when Ian urged him into the bedroom rather than let him sink to the

carpet in front of the door for another round. But where he’d allowed Ian to overwhelm his
inhibitions in the living room, as Ian dropped his shorts and stretched out on the bed, hands
above his head like a man waiting for his mistress to join him, a fierce need gripped Miguel, a

desire to exert his own dominance, to prove he was Ian’s match when it came to this.

He stripped out of his clothes, flinging them to the floor then climbing onto the bed and on

top of Ian. His hands went to Ian’s wrists, eliciting a husky laugh, a challenge Miguel answered
by slamming his mouth on Ian’s, his tongue demanding entrance, gaining it and getting a taste
of himself as well. A darkly carnal turn-on as cock touched to cock and the rush of blood
downward made him lightheaded.

He was hard again, balls tight and fingers of heat spearing upward. He could come just

rubbing against Ian. Damn if felt good. More than good.

He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. Liquid heat pooling, building with each thrust of

his tongue and answering lift of Ian’s hips. Satisfaction roaring through him with the spreading of
Ian’s thighs, a surrender, an offering—bringing with it memories of the night before, when he’d
shoved his cock into Ianthe’s back entrance, fucked her with images of Ian’s body overlaid onto
hers.

He wanted more than a silent ceding of defeat. He wanted Ian reduced to pleading.
He felt like a starving man let loose at a banquet. He wanted to taste everything, experience

everything, the need for it like desperation, as if this was his one chance to sate his hunger.

Forcing his mouth from Ian’s, he zeroed in on a small, dark nipple, sucking, biting, thrilling to

the sound of Ian’s ragged breath and the feel of Ian’s hands in his hair.

“Lower,” Ian moaned, thrusting his hips and leaving a trail of arousal on Miguel’s belly.
Miguel complied, giving in to the hidden temptation, the forbidden curiosity that had haunted

him from the first time he’d spied on Julio and Leon. His hand fisted around Ian’s cock while the
other captured Ian’s testicles, mimicking what had been done to him against the door. He took
Ian’s cock between his lips, used his tongue and the suction of his mouth to bring Ian to the
point of release, then denied him, denied them both until he’d reached the point when he was
about to come.

On a shudder of need, he freed Ian’s cock. “Decide,” Ian said, using the tightening of his

fingers in Miguel’s hair as a summons so they were once again face-to-face. “Take or be
taken.”

And in response came that memory from the past of watching Julio beneath Leon, the flow

of Leon’s long hair over his back as much of a turn-on as seeing the thrust of Leon’s hips and
the flex of his buttocks. “Taken.”

Admitting to the desire, speaking the words out loud, might have derailed it except Ian rolled

them, taking the dominant position in a ripple of muscle and a wrenching away of inhibition and
control. His tongue plundered Miguel’s mouth. His will sundered any resistance.

Ian reached for the nightstand drawer, opening it and finding the lubricant. And then he

opened Miguel, prepared him with slick fingers for the penetration that came afterward—though
nothing could have prepared Miguel for the exquisite agony, the mind-blowing pleasure he
experienced as Ian’s cock breached him, filled him. Ian’s mouth never leaving his as he showed
him with masculine strength what could exist between them, struck the place deep inside Miguel
no woman had ever found.

Miguel came, ropey jets of semen trapped between his body and Ian’s. The release

extended by the clamping of inner muscles as Ian continued to thrust. The satisfaction
intensified by Ian’s moaned surrender and the pulsing of his cock as he came inside Miguel then
collapsed on top of him, lingering there before rolling onto his side.

“Give me a couple minutes and I’ll be ready to do that again,” Ian said, the predatory gleam

back in his expression as leaned in so his mouth was above Miguel’s. “How was it for you,
lover?”

His hand went to Miguel’s cock, the grip possessive, making Miguel’s breath catch and heat

flood his chest, though the question had it crawling up his face with a return to reality.

Fuck. What did he just do?
A pounding on the door drenched him with cold panic. Conner, knocking the way he did

when he swung by during off-time, too excited about a break in a case to bother calling ahead.

Miguel scrambled from the bed, snagging his pants, wiping chest and abdomen with the

sheet before putting on his clothes and going to the front door. He opened it just enough to slip
outside. Closed it to the point where nothing of the living room was visible while being careful
not to lock himself out.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun and games,” Conner said, grinning, ratcheting up the pounding

beat of Miguel’s pulse and intensifying his awareness of Ian’s scent on his skin, the smell of sex
and the semen sliding out of his ass.

“We got a break on the case?” Somehow he managed a steady voice though it didn’t calm

the panic that came with knowing Ian was inside the apartment and what they’d done together
might still be exposed.

“Scored a hat trick. Ricky’s phone records came in. Guess who sent him the text message.”
“David Alves.”
“Right in one.”
“What’d it say?”
“I’m sorry. Please meet me. Leaving now. Usual place. Which segues into break number

two.”

“One of the uniforms got a hit on the pictures.”
“Only on Alves’ picture. Clerk at one of the nicer hotels remembered renting the room to him

shortly before midnight. There’s a paper trail. Alves’ credit card, though the clerk didn’t see him
with Ricky. The place is less than a mile away from the murder site.”

“And the third break?”
“There’s surveillance. They’re waiting for us to come down and take a look at it right now.

Figured I’d swing by and give you a lift since it’s on the way.”

“I’ll be out after I grab a shower.”
Conner smirked. “Not inviting me in to wait, huh?”
Fear of discovery overtook the excitement of being closer to wrapping up the investigation.

He didn’t respond, afraid anything he said would only make the situation worse. Opening the
door, he slipped back inside, closed the door but not before Conner made a show of leaning
over to look in.

Miguel turned, his mouth going dry when he saw Ian in the living room directly in front of him.

Chapter Nine

Paralysis held Miguel in place like a deer in headlights and all he heard was a roar, a

sixteen-wheeler barreling down on him. Ian’s eyes went hard, his lips thinning and his arms
crossing, the movement freeing Miguel and making him aware that Ian was wearing shorts.

Breath came with the realization. He couldn’t be sure Conner had seen Ian. And if he had—

I’ll deal with it.

Inwardly he cringed at the lie that came most readily, that he’d given in to kink and let

Ianthe’s twin brother play voyeur. “Break in the case,” he said. “I’ve got to grab a shower and
head out with Conner.”

Ian let Miguel pass without reaching out and forcing him with a touch or kiss to acknowledge

what they’d done together, to accept the desire even now riding just below the surface. He let
Miguel shower alone, taking up a position in the bathroom doorway and waiting.

For a change it wasn’t hunger gnawing at him in Miguel’s presence. Frustration bit him,

anger, the increasing need to have only truth exist between them.

Miguel emerged, grabbing a towel. Drying off as he faced the mirror though it did nothing to

hide his expression or keep their eyes from meeting.

“Stay out of sight until Conner and I leave.” Said with will, a command he couldn’t know Ian

had no power to ignore.

Ian pushed away from the doorframe at the feel of the familiar-bond snapping into place like

a leash on a dog. He invaded Miguel’s personal space. His hand going around, taking
possession of Miguel’s cock, the sight of it stiffening, flushing with color, irrefutable evidence of
desire caught in the mirror. “Why, because you’re so ashamed of this?”

“I don’t want this.”
He stroked and Miguel’s buttocks clenched. His head lowered in acquiescence.
“Liar. What are you so afraid of? That people will know you enjoy this?”
Miguel’s head snapped up. “Yes! Satisfied now?”
“Hardly. Why you care so much—especially in this time period and this place—I don’t know.

What does it matter if you’re bisexual in nature? I understand some discretion is required,
because of Ianthe, because she has dreams of one day being your wife and the mother of your
children, but I won’t be hidden away like a dark, shameful secret, not in front of your partner,
not in front of those who could accept your witch blood because they accept the existence of
the supernatural.”

“Then this ends now. After Conner and I are gone, leave and don’t come back here.”
The compulsion flowed into Ian like an icy river, the rejection freezing him so thoroughly it

took an instant for fear to form, that he wouldn’t be able to overcome the edict as Ianthe, and
then that fear shattered with realization. It had to be all or nothing between them. He didn’t
want to use Ianthe’s form to manipulate Miguel into rescinding the command, nor did he want to
go forward, faithful to Miguel in one aspect as Ianthe, while taking lovers as Ian when the need
to feed could no longer be ignored.

Viewed in retrospect, he saw that the first big lie between them—committed by omission, in

becoming Miguel’s lover as Ianthe—had been a mistake. He’d hidden the truth of his dual
sexuality then as Miguel wanted to keep hiding his bisexual nature now.

You reap what you sow—a favored saying of the demon he’d once called lord—and he’d

sown the seeds of his own unhappiness in this world. He freed Miguel’s cock and stepped
away from him, not yet giving up all hope of a future together, but understanding there was
nothing more to say at the moment, with the Were’s mate waiting.

Ian turned away, leaving Miguel to finish toweling off and dressing. He flopped onto the bed,

well fed but left hollowed-out and hungry, longing for things to be different—male and female
aspects hurting, regretting. When Miguel entered the room, he closed his eyes, sparing them
both any additional confrontation, trapped in an unworkable dynamic and unable even to share
his belief that Miguel and his partner were focusing on the wrong suspect when it came to
Ricky Moreno’s murder.

Confusion and desire and shame, all of them were there as Miguel’s gaze traveled the

length of Ian’s body. He wanted, even now, with Conner waiting for him. Recognized that with
Ian and Ianthe he could have something he wouldn’t have dreamed possible, even if he’d been
willing to explore the fantasy of being with another man.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Unsure of what to say, what he could say.
Mierda. It had to wait. He’d figure it out later, after work.
He dressed and left, a measure of calm and relief restored at not finding Conner hovering

outside his door.

It was short lived.
As soon as Miguel slid into the passenger seat, Conner said, “Something you want to tell

me?”

Not, Who was that? Not a joked, You into kink? But a direct hit, or at least that’s what it

sounded like. That’s what it felt like as sweat broke out on Miguel’s skin.

His heart became a trapped frantic thing as he imagined Conner wondering if he was

banging both Ianthe and her brother. Or fucking her while her brother fucked him.

“No.” The silence between question and answer was too long, an admission of guilt on its

own that kept Miguel staring straight ahead rather than risking a glance at Conner.

Conner’s attention flicked from the road to Miguel and back. Son of a bitch, this was killing

him, not being able to talk openly about the supernatural shit. Incubus, succubus, considering
he’d seen Ianthe in a totally different form—small, blonde and female—it didn’t take a stretch of
the imagination to know the guy who could pass for her twin was actually the demon.

Fuck! He didn’t give a rat’s ass if his partner liked variety—beyond a change in breast size

and hair color—but nothing, nothing had ever led him to think Miguel was bi. Far from it,
considering just how many badge bunnies he’d seen Miguel go home with before the crush on
Storm sidelined him into abstinence.

Shit! He’d pound on the steering wheel if it’d do some good. He’d be pissed at Khemirra for

not telling him what the demon was capable of, except after the shock of learning she was a
werewolf, and nearly losing her because of it, they’d promised one another there wouldn’t be
any secrets between them.

He was willing to bet her thoughts hadn’t gone down this particular road either. Especially

considering she still felt guilty over having the medallion out in the first place despite Aislinn

thinking this was fated.

What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He wasn’t going to sit still and watch his

partner get screwed-over and screwed-up, but he also didn’t want to butt in either and cause
things to go sideways. Because, shit, for all he knew, Miguel wanted to experiment, only he had
the bad luck of getting caught at it.

Conner cut another look in Miguel’s direction. He couldn’t completely leave this alone, not

without taking another stab at opening the door to uncensored communication.

“I’m here for you, man, just remember that, okay? I can handle some pretty freaky shit.”
He grimaced at the way that came out. He’d been thinking about Khemirra being a

werewolf, but fuck… Time to move on, before he made this worse.

He cleared his throat, the words not exactly forming easily. Finally he managed to grasp

something relatively coherent and said, “What do think about this scenario? We’re looking at a
lover’s quarrel turned deadly. They break up, as evidenced by Ricky being at FlashBang. The
text message comes in and they get together for some make-up sex. Only it doesn’t solve
anything. It just leads to, ‘If I can’t have you, no one can.’”

Miguel recognized Conner was throwing him a lifeline and was grateful for it even as he

despised himself for accepting it so readily. “Believable scenario except bringing a gun
suggests premeditation, which works if Alves forced Ricky down to the surf, hell, maybe even
made him walk into it, hoping the body would be carried out. But then why leave a trail by
sending a text and getting a hotel room close to the murder site? Why leave DNA, sperm and
probably saliva and skin too?”

Conner grunted in acknowledgment of the point. “Could be Alves had the gun for self-

protection, a little residual fear left over from the days when he was hooking. They have the
make-up sex, fight again. Ricky storms down to the beach and Alves follows. Things get out of
hand. Four in the chest suggests emotions are running high. Only the trouble with four in the
chest, it ends the argument permanently.”

Miguel nodded. “I can see it playing out that way. Take the cell phone, hope we don’t figure

out Ricky had one and get a call record. Maybe toss the gun into the ocean afterward rather
than risk getting caught with it.”

“He wouldn’t have had to go very far to make the odds of us recovering it slim. But there’s

risk there. Even if he wiped it, there’s still a chance we’ll be able to pull a print off the magazine
or one of the bullets.”

“Could be why he’s made himself scarce. He lost his nerve once the body was found. I still

think there’s a good chance he’s in the wind, already somewhere in the Caribbean.”

“Looking more and more possible.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Miguel glanced at Conner. Would it really be so bad

to tell him—

What? I’m bi. Only that label wasn’t an easy fit either. He could see himself with Ian, but not

with anyone else except Ianthe.

Closing his eyes, he could see the sapphire-blue cord between them. If he believed in the

weirdness of Talocan and his being a brujo—which he did—then he had to believe in the bond
existing between Ian and him, and Ianthe and him.

His skin pricked with gooseflesh at remembering Ian’s awareness of what had happened in

the dream cave the night before. He couldn’t have known it if they weren’t linked in a way most

lovers could never be.

It should terrify him. Instead he wanted it with an intensity that had a different kind of fear

rippling through him. He had the sudden, sick feeling it was too late to get anything out in the
open, that Ianthe wouldn’t come home tonight, that her stuff would be gone, the relationship
ended because of Ian—

No, he couldn’t lay the blame on her brother.
Why would Ianthe stay with a guy who couldn’t accept himself?
He’d screwed up. He’d panicked.
He’d felt pressured and he’d yanked denial back into his life like a shield, only the shield

didn’t cover him anymore. He’d lashed out instead of committing to the relationship and asking
for time to work through the baggage he’d been carrying since Julio came out as gay, the
shame he associated with desiring another man.

He opened his mouth, intending to tell Conner to turn the car around, that he needed to go

back to the apartment for a minute, except Ian would be gone by now. The hollowed out place
in his gut said as much.

Handle the case then hurry home. After that…
Conner pulled into the hotel lot and parked. Inside, the manager ushered them into an office,

explaining how their security cameras stored data. It didn’t take long to hit pay dirt.

“Bingo,” Conner said, as on-screen, Ricky left the hotel room with Alves on his heels,

reaching out, grabbing Ricky’s arm so he was forced around for a face-to-face.

“Look at the time. This is thirty-three, thirty-four minutes before someone called in reporting

gunshots.”

“Alves is doing all the talking.”
“Pleading, it looks like.” Alves’ expression was raw, stark, hitting too close to the emotions

that had come in the wake of Conner’s showing up at his apartment to make it easy for Miguel
to watch the scene play out.

Ricky’s body language screamed hurt resistance. He pulled away, turned his back and

walking while Alves stood, watching him go.

In minutes Ricky was out of camera range, swallowed by the night. Alves went back into the

room, came out pulling his shirt on, wiping at tears and visibly gulping air as he headed in a
different direction than the one Ricky had taken.

“Off to get his gun now,” Conner theorized. “Interesting that he made a point of parking his

car somewhere other than right in front of the hotel room, like he was afraid of how this might
end and wanted a cool-down period.”

“Could be. I think it’s time we make a concentrated effort to talk to him.”
“You got that right. Soon as we get this evidence secured we can swing by his place. If he’s

not there, we’ll put out an All Points on him as a person of extreme interest.”

“I’m good with that.”

* * * * *

Ian didn’t know why he’d come back here, wasting energy to take Amador’s form. It

somehow seemed pathetic now, as if he had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. Or worse,
was desperate to see Miguel and acting like a love-sick human teenager, putting himself in the

object of his adoration’s path in a bid to be noticed.

The thought brought distaste, a halt to his forward motion. Pride nearly had him turning

away from the house.

He closed his eyes, thinking to use memories of demon conquest and the heady desire of

those who’d lusted for him as balm and salve, only to remember those who’d lost their souls,
their lives because of him.

“Be something more than you once were,” he told himself. Not that he could share whatever

information he gained with Miguel, not that helping find justice for the dead teen would make
any difference to those he’d killed or who’d killed themselves after being seduced by a
succubus, an incubus, so many hundreds of years ago. But there was a measure of atonement
in this act, something to be gained in terms of the soul, in doing good.

Whatever the future held, he would see this through. And if he learned anything useful, he

could pass the information on to Khemirra, who in turn could pass it on to her mate.

Opening his eyes, he headed up the walkway, noting only one bike lay in the dirt then

detouring at the sound of music being turned on in the backyard. David was in the pool,
swimming laps.

Angelo sat on the end of a lounge chair, the soiled knapsack at his feet. He watched David

with unconcealed infatuation, a mix of obsession and desire in his expression until he became
aware of Amador. Then he ducked his head, using the long strands of his hair in a projection of
shyness though jealousy-fueled hostility suffused his aura in a fiery flash, the color of it
intensifying as Amador neared the pool.

Angelo picked up the knapsack, fingers tightening on it when incubus allure had David

stopping long enough to greet Amador before resuming his laps. Amador made a point of
staring at the knapsack, waiting for a reaction and getting it when Angelo’s back hunched into a
protective posture, as if guarding his most valuable possessions.

Before this day is done, I’ll know what’s in there, but for now, I’ll see what he’s capable of,

how well he can guard his feelings and control his behavior when provoked.

Amador kicked off the flip-flops and jumped into the pool, forgetting the purpose of it as

water closed over him, bombarding him with sensation and remembered ease. In the dark
realm he’d often escaped the lord’s court this way, by sliding into one of the heated, abyss-like
lakes as if it were a womb he might emerge from to a different reality.

In this world he opened his eyes and traveled the length of the pool beneath the water’s

surface. He rose from the depths only for breath, and though his speed didn’t match that of his
demon form, nor were his movements as sinuous, he still found a measure of calm and peace,
a return of hope as he swam.

* * * * *

“The Nissan is still there, which may or may not mean this is our lucky day,” Conner said

when they caught sight of Alves’ place.

He parked the sedan directly behind Alves’ car, blocking it in case Alves was there.
Getting out, Miguel touched the gun in its shoulder rig, a habit left over from his days as a

patrol officer. “Two bikes. One doesn’t look familiar. But if I’m not mistaken, the other belongs
to Angelo. Could be we’ve only got two kids and possibly Alves to deal with.”

Conner cocked his head. “Sounds like someone’s in the pool. Let’s see who we’ve got back

there before deciding if we want backup.”

They moved to the gate, attention split between it and the front door, in case Alves was

inside watching and attempted to bolt. Miguel reached for the latch string, pulled, releasing it as
Conner pushed the gate open.

“Our hot streak continues,” Conner murmured. “Alves is in the pool.”
Trapped without a weapon. Miguel grinned. “Doesn’t get any better than that.”
They entered the backyard, eyes scanning, finding Angelo sitting on a lounge chair, the

knapsack they’d seen him carrying when he rode away from the house the day before on his
lap. Another kid, one Miguel couldn’t see clearly enough to recognize, was in the pool with
Alves, gliding underneath the water, turning and kicking off the deep-end wall.

Alves flipped over and did the same at the shallow-end, rising to the surface to continue

free-stroking, pretending not to notice their arrival, though Miguel suspected coming back home
was the equivalent of turning himself in for Alves. Alves knew they wanted to talk to him. He had
to know they’d keep looking for him here.

Miguel angled away from Conner, allowing for better coverage of Alves. The kid in the pool

with Alves broke the surface and swam to the near wall, pulling himself out to sit on the edge a
few feet away from Angelo.
Alves stopped pretending he didn’t have cops in his backyard. He swam to the side and climbed
out between them, closer to Miguel. Miguel reached for him, fingers clamping down on wet
skin. “You need to come with us.”

Behind Miguel the unknown kid yelled, “No!” Fear and panicked voice accompanied almost

simultaneously by a gunshot.

Miguel turned, releasing Alves, reaching for his 9mm even as Conner got off a shot, striking

Angelo in the chest as the teen fired again.

The bullet went astray, hitting Alves while Angelo dropped across the lounge chair, his

weapon falling to the ground.

The unknown boy lay still on the concrete, his chest bloody from a gaping wound.
Conner moved up quickly, kneeling next to Alves, cell phone out and lifting to his mouth.
Miguel kept his 9mm aimed at Angelo as he rushed forward, checked for a pulse.
“Dead?” Conner asked, moving again, grabbing a towel dropped onto a nearby chair and

returning to Alves, bunching it and holding it against the gut wound.

“Dead,” Miguel confirmed, holstering his own gun and snagging another towel, returning to

the unknown kid. Kneeling, checking for a pulse. It was hardly there.

He pressed the towel to the kid’s chest, his own tight at seeing the damage and knowing the

kid wasn’t going to make it. “What just happened?”

“Far as I can tell, your grabbing Alves set Angelo off. The view was partially blocked but he

must have had the gun in the knapsack. He pulled it. The kid by the pool saw it and jumped for
it. Took the first bullet and gave me enough time to draw. How is he?”

“Bad.” The towel in Miguel’s hand was already saturated with blood. He could hear sirens in

the distance and coming closer, patrol cars, not EMT. “Stay with me, kid,” he said, willing it
with every fiber of his being, the words becoming a mantra.

This kid had taken a bullet for him. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t.
Pain receded in the cold embrace of death. Ian felt his essence dissolving, dissipating like a

cloud marring the perfect blue of a never-ending sky. Conscious existence ceasing as the blood
left his physical body, pumped by a fading heart, the truth of mortality brought irrevocably
home.

It was a losing battle but he struggled against accepting death. Each small victory brought

pain more sharply into focus, and with that focus came a name, a purpose for hanging on.
Miguel.

Strength trickled down the familiar-bond. Miguel’s will casting a sieved net around Ian’s

essence, what the humans thought of as soul, tightening around it though it still leaked away.

Miguel’s chanting voice reached him. Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me. Compelling

him, holding him to this world a little longer and bringing with it the return of physical agony.

He forced his eyes open, witnessed the startled surprise in Miguel’s expression at finding

himself looking into the same sapphire-blue of Ian and Ianthe’s eyes. There was no recognition
otherwise.

Pride—the downfall of humans and demons alike, but also an enabling grace, a source of

strength and empowerment—had him fighting against the pain and death. He refused to die
unknown, unacknowledged. Without a chance to…explain his presence in Miguel’s life. Drawing
on what life-energy remained of his gathered essence, Amador’s form gave way to Ian’s,
though there was no healing the damage done.

Miguel’s eyes widened with shock then watered with tears. “No! Fuck no!” Tormented

denial, as behind him the Were’s mate cursed.

“Wanted to be more than a sexual fantasy,” Ian said, blood leaking from the corners of his

mouth and dripping to the concrete. “Wanted to be human.”

“What are you?”
“Was. Incubus. Succubus.”
And Miguel understood. Heard Ian’s voice in the cave that led to Talocan saying, My

essence is sexual, and Ianthe’s afterward, Ian and I are two sides of the same coin.

“How?”
“The medallion.”
And he remembered the burn of picking it up.
“Thought I could help you,” Ian whispered. “Guess I did in the end. Better me than you. Your

soul is a shiny thing. And mine…”

Ian coughed and blood filled his mouth. He turned his head enough so he wouldn’t drown in

it. Felt the fading of his heart again and managed a smile. “It was fun while it lasted.”

The hands on his chest pushed down. Miguel’s will slammed into him. “Hang in there.

Please, hang in there. The paramedics are on the way.”

“Mortal wound.” Whispered. Wheezed. “Only thing holding me here is you.”
Pain crashed into Miguel. He refused to accept Ian’s pronouncement. “No! No!”
“Denial doesn’t make it less true.” Ian met his gaze then, the message a reminder of what

had happened earlier.

Miguel leaned in, his mouth close to Ian’s, and like a hungry roar, survival instinct surged into

Ian. His lips parted but before he could touch them to Miguel’s, the Were’s mate was there,
slamming into Miguel, knocking him aside and holding him pinned to the concrete.

“Demon, Miguel! He’s a fucking demon, the male version of Ianthe. He’ll take your life to

save his own. That’s not happening on my watch.”

Miguel struggled against the hold, cursing, ordering Conner to let him go. Fear of losing Ian

and Ianthe lending him strength so he got away, only to be taken down again inches away from
Ian’s face.

“He’s right,” Ian whispered. “The familiar-bond gives you the advantage. Your will rules,

almost always. Not in this. I could take you instead of letting you take me.”

The words were dark humor slicing away Miguel’s concern over what others might think if

they knew he was with another man. “Let me up, Conner. You’d risk your life for Khemirra.
Trust me to make my own choice.”

“Fuck!” Conner let him go, returning to Alves, whose pain left him without the bandwidth to

process what was going on around him. “Do it. You’ve got less than a minute before we’ve got
company.

Miguel bent over Ian. “How?”
“Kiss me.”
Miguel touched his mouth to Ian’s. Tongue entering, stroking. Sexual heat sparking to life in

death’s presence, intensifying as the kiss deepened until reality constricted, narrowed, turning
into a familiar pinprick.

Instinctual fear threatened to make Miguel jerk away as he grew weaker. But he held

steady, willed Ian to survive, wanting him as well as Ianthe in his life.

Like a flower blossoming in sudden heat and sunshine, the drain of life reversed. He could

almost feel the sapphire-blue cord he’d first seen in Talocan snapping backward, coiling inside
him as though his soul reeled Ian’s in, like the fishing line Ian had once named it.

It snagged, as if caught up on something. Mortal flesh, Miguel realized an instant later, as

he took Ian’s last breath.

The shock of it had denial screaming through him. He lifted his mouth from Ian’s and saw the

unknown teen’s form, a final gift of order restored in death, in case David Alves survived to
identify the body.

Dazed, Miguel checked for a pulse and found none. He closed his eyes, attempted in

consciousness what he tried to avoid in sleep, to spirit-walk in the hopes of finding Ian in the
cave leading to Talocan, to somehow drag his soul back.

He failed, though not completely. There was a sense of something gathered in his chest,

coiled around his heart. Magic? The bond? Ian’s spirit?

He didn’t know but in that moment, he promised himself he would return to Talocan and

search out his tatarabuelo. He would learn the things he needed to know about the witch blood
flowing through his veins.

Miguel stood, lost to purpose until Conner said, “Shit. Shit, I’m sorry. You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” Half afraid he was imagining it but not willing to deny the possibility, he

added, “Ian’s not gone. I can feel him.”

“Like you’re possessed?”
Miguel shrugged.
“Fuck.”
Emergency vehicles screeched to a halt on the other side of the fence. “Look,” Conner said.

“After we deal with this, there’s a witch Khemirra’s been consulting with, because of your

touching the medallion. Seraphine can help. She’ll want to. Aislinn says she’s Dylan’s match.”

The gate jerked opened, ending the chance for further conversation.

* * * * *

What followed seemed to take forever. Time crawling, surreal, and remaining that way after

he and Conner had finally been cut loose to return to Conner’s place.

Miguel was still having trouble getting his head around the revelations even as he parked his

truck in front of the witch’s house.

Khemirra, a werewolf. Werewolf!
Trace’s Aislinn, a half-elf.
Sophie, Storm’s cousin, with Severn Damek. A dragon!
And Storm, Storm, with a bona-fide faerie—no, make that two, though they looked so much

alike, humans who didn’t need to know the truth thought there was only the one.

He got out of the truck. At least Conner was handling the justified killing of Angelo okay. The

kid hadn’t left any other choice.

With the spotlight focused on finding out what the hell had led him to try to kill two cops,

everything came together. The gun was the same make, same model as the one that had killed
Ricky Moreno. Ballistics would prove it was the same gun.

Ricky’s phone in the knapsack added evidence Angelo had followed Ricky down to the

beach, for one of the oldest motives around. Love, even if it was twisted and delusional and
entirely one-sided.

He and Rogelio hadn’t left after dinner. They’d been there when Ricky headed to FlashBang.

They’d been there when, four hours later, David had gone to the hotel.

Leaving now. Usual place. Angelo must have followed them before and knew where to go

later, when his absence wouldn’t cause suspicion.

Fingerprints, taken by the coroner, had popped in the system. Not Angelo Martino, the name

he’d given them at the outreach center, but Diego Martino, age eighteen despite looking
sixteen, and with a long history of mental illness, including violence centered around romantic
relationships, whether those relationships actually existed or were imagined.

They’d never know for sure how Angelo came by the gun. Miguel was betting he’d found or

stolen it, kept it maybe without the conscious intention to use it. But guns and kids didn’t mix
well.

Alves stood a good chance of surviving. He’d been stabilized long enough before going into

surgery to admit he and Ricky were lovers, and had been since the day Ricky turned eighteen.
They’d fought because Ricky wanted to stop hiding it, while David wanted to wait, afraid of
what people would say. They’d made up, Alves begging for Ricky to keep things quiet for
another four months, and Ricky had headed to the beach to think about it.

Miguel knocked on the witch’s door. One look when it opened told Miguel all he needed to

know. Dylan didn’t stand a chance, not against the gorgeous redhead in front of him.

“Come in,” she invited, and Miguel did, following her to a room with circles traced on the

floor, one inside the other, two pair of them, with symbols drawn between them, both inside
and outside the lines.

Four candles were lit, the only light that would be visible when the door closed. The smell of

incense, from elsewhere or the candles, reminded him of the copal burning on the altar in his
great-great-grandfather’s house.

“There’s choice here,” Seraphine said. “Reanimation. Or exorcism. I can sever the bond,

casting the demon’s essence from this world and freeing you from—”

“No.” He didn’t need to think about it. He understood now, the compromise Ian had offered,

along with his refusal to have their relationship hidden as if it were a shameful thing. When he’d
touched his mouth to Ian’s and known Conner watched, he’d accepted that in front of those who
knew such things as werewolves and witches, elves and faeries and dragons and demons
existed, he wouldn’t pretend Ian was anything other than what he was. Lover. Partner. Part of
the whole of what he shared with Ianthe.

Seraphine handed him a medallion on a chain. The same one? He hadn’t looked closely at it

that day in Conner’s kitchen.

He put it on. “Now what?” Though he could guess the answer.
“Stand in the center of the circle. And try to relax.”
He went. She gave a second warning from the doorway. “There’ll always be risk with this

choice. Death is the only thing that’ll end the familiar-bond. The demon—”

“Former demon.”
Seraphine’s smile would have been heart stopping if he wasn’t already taken. “The former

demon will still need to feed the magic tethering it to mortal body and to life.”

“I figured as much. I can handle it.” Heat crawled up his neck despite being willing to openly

acknowledge his relationship with Ian. “I trust Ian and Ianthe.” They were different enough that
even knowing they were essentially the same entity, he couldn’t think of them as being one
person.

“Then we’ll start.” She closed the door, leaving the room in darkness except for the candlelit

circles. “Focus on the form you want the former demon to take.”

She began speaking softly. The words of the incantation reached him as tones as images

flickered in and out of existence in his mind’s eye, alternating between Ian and Ianthe. Fantasy.
Reality. Truth.

In his chest he felt an uncoiling, need snaking downward, through his belly, to pool in his

testicles and wrap around a cock that filled, stretching upward to escape the confines of his
trousers.

Lust. Hunger. He panted, closing his eyes, head tilted backward.
Imaginary hands touched. Stroked. And he desperately willed them to become real, his

words whispered, joining Seraphine’s. Ianthe. Ian. And in a place of magic and blood and will, in
a human heart turned into a soul’s temporary vessel, words of power touched subsumed
essence, giving it consciousness, names to call itself, forcing it into existence.

Ian reformed, still phantom body and hungry spirit.
He needed sex, but the hunger had a name, Miguel, and encompassed more than just

physical desire. He craved life and the fulfillment that would come with loving, and being loved in
return.

A thin cord kept him from dissolving into the unknown, marked the trading of one type of

enslavement for another. And then he felt it, acknowledged bond and accepted relationship.
Understood that his image formed by Miguel’s will, his body given substance by a witch’s power
gained and channeled from the dark realm.

He gave a fleeting thought to what that might have cost—or yet cost the witch—as he

became flesh and man once again, mortal, and felt the grip of Miguel’s hands on his arms,
pulling him forward in embrace. Lips touching his, claiming as cocks touched, separated only by
the material of Miguel’s pants.

With the witch watching, he accepted all Miguel said through his kiss. And as he ate hungrily

at Miguel’s mouth, fed on lust and the beginnings of love, on the promise of a future together,
he allowed male lines to become feminine ones, welcomed the touch of Miguel’s hands to
breasts with hard-tipped nipples and found only pleasure, hope, when the mortal need for air
forced their mouths apart, and Miguel said, “Let’s go home.”

About the Author

Jory has been writing since childhood and has never outgrown being a daydreamer. When

she’s not hunched over her computer, lost in the muse and conjuring up new heroes and
heroines, she can usually be found reading, riding her horses or hiking with her dogs.

Jory welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her

author bio page

at

www.ellorascave.com

.

Tell Us What You Think

We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at

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Also by

Jory Strong

Carnival Tarot 1: Sarael’s Reading
Carnival Tarot 2: Kiziah’s Reading
Carnival Tarot 3: Dakotah’s Reading
Crime Tells 1: Lyric’s Cop
Crime Tells 2: Cady’s Cowboy
Crime Tells 3: Calista’s Men
Crime Tells 4: Cole’s Gamble
Death’s Courtship
Divine Redemption
Ellora’s Cavemen: Dreams of the Oasis I

anthology

Ellora’s Cavemen: Jewels of the Nile III

anthology

Ellora’s Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction I

anthology

Ellora’s Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction IV

anthology

Elven Surrender
Fallon Mates 1: Binding Krista
Fallon Mates 2: Zeraac’s Miracle
Fallon Mates 3: Roping Savannah
Fallon Mates 4: Zoe’s Gift
Fallon Mates: First Sharing
Familiar Pleasures
Healing Seduction
Ride to Ecstasy
Spirit Flight
Spirits Shared
Supernatural Bonds 1: Trace’s Psychic
Supernatural Bonds 2: Storm’s Faeries
Supernatural Bonds 3: Sophie’s Dragon
Supernatural Bonds 4: Drui Claiming
Supernatural Bonds 5: Dragon Mate
Supernatural Bonds 6: Conner’s Wolf
The Angelini 1: Skye’s Trail
The Angelini 2: Syndelle’s Possession
The Angelini 3: Mystic’s Run
Two Spirits

Print books by Jory Strong

Carnival Tarot

anthology

Crime Tells 1: Lyric’s Cop
Crime Tells 2: Cady’s Cowboy
Crime Tells 3: Calista’s Men
Crime Tells 4: Cole’s Gamble
Ellora’s Cavemen: Dreams of the Oasis I

anthology

Ellora’s Cavemen: Jewels of the Nile III

anthology

Ellora’s Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction I

anthology

Ellora’s Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction IV

anthology

Fallon Mates 1: Binding Krista
Fallon Mates 2: Zeraac’s Miracle
Fallon Mates 3: Roping Savannah
Fallon Mates 4: Zoe’s Gift
Feral Fixation

anthology

Forbidden Fantasies

anthology

Supernatural Bonds 1: Trace’s Psychic
Supernatural Bonds 2: Storm’s Faeries
Supernatural Bonds 3: Sophie’s Dragon
Supernatural Bonds 4: Drui Claiming
Supernatural Bonds 5: Dragon Mate
The Angelini 1: Skye’s Trail
The Angelini 2: Syndelle’s Possession
The Angelini 3: Mystic’s Run
Thunderbird Chosen

anthology

Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher

Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at
www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.

www.ellorascave.com