To Dance with the Devil

as permanent but definitely worse.

I pulled onto the shoulder and stopped, putting the car in neutral but leaving the engine running. I got my gun out and laid it in my lap, then set a couple of spell disks on the dashboard as backup.

I was about to be attacked by three men. I grabbed my phone, again trying to dial 911, but the signal was still blocked. But hey, my cell has a really good camera. So I snapped quick shots of the three of them and the license plates of their vehicles, then shoved the phone under my seat.

Ready as I would ever be, I waited. The two who went to the passenger side of my car had the look of hired muscle: big, brawny, with attitude and prison tats. One was black, the other white, but other than that they were interchangeable, both wearing jeans and battered band T-shirts that had seen better days. The white guy held a classic Louisville Slugger in his left hand, its tip resting gently against the rough gravel of the road’s shoulder.

The man on my side was cut from a different cloth. He wore a hand-tailored suit that was obviously expensive. The fit was as good as Isaac’s, but the spell work wasn’t—I could see a slight bulge where he wore his weapons. He stopped about a yard from my door, making no aggressive moves, doing nothing overtly threatening.

He was of average height and not particularly built, but that meant nothing. He was tough. You could see it in how he held himself, the thin veneer of polish over the hard reality of violence. There were old scars on his face near those icy blue eyes, and his nose had been broken more than once. But his reddish hair was perfectly styled and his face had been shaved as smooth as a baby’s bottom.

When he reached into his pocket, I tensed, readying myself to fight. But he simply drew out his wallet and removed a spell disk. He set it gently onto the ground between us, then rose to his full height, and with one stomp of his well-shod foot, he broke the disk.

A fine mist formed a full-color, three-dimensional, holographic image of the head and bare shoulders of a man who appeared to be an older, harder version of the guy in the suit. He was clearly a relative—probably his father, and despite the fact that he wasn’t actually present, I would’ve sworn he was looking right at me, across who knew how many miles and through the car window.

“Hello, Ms. Graves.” He didn’t give his name, which was no surprise, but otherwise he spoke quite civilly. I could live with civil. Maybe literally. So I played along.

“Hi. What’s up?”

“I have a problem, Ms. Graves … Celia.” He stared at me long and hard, taking my measure, much as Abigail Andrews had done the other day.

“Oh?”

His smile was chilling. There was very little sanity in his eyes, certainly no warmth or empathy. He was a stone-cold killer. I knew, knew that if he said the word, the men surrounding my car would do everything in their power to kill me. If they failed, he’d send someone else, and would keep sending people until the job was done. I had to fight not to shudder, to keep my expression and body language impassive.

He watched me, his smile broadening, with a little sparkle in his eyes. Apparently I amused him. “I have a … project I’ve been working on. It’s taken most of my life. Now, when it’s nearly completed, my clairvoyant friends tell me there’s a problem.”

He didn’t expect me to say anything, so I didn’t. I sat, waiting for the other boot to drop.

“You’re that problem. I was hoping that I could buy you off. After all, you’re a bit of a mercenary or you wouldn’t work as a bodyguard.” He paused, waiting for me to deny it. “But I see now that that won’t be possible. So I’m left with a dilemma. I’m told that if you become part of this, there will be trouble—but if I kill you, it will be even worse. The possibility of failure has been mentioned.

“I could tell you to stop. But you won’t. I can see that. You’re too tough.” He shook his head in mock sadness, but his eyes were avid. “So I’m just going to have to prove to you that I’m tougher.” The image turned to the suited man. “Do it.”

At the sound of his command, several things happened at once. I grabbed the nearest spell disk, the suited man broke a disk he’d palmed while I was listening to the hologram, and the thug with the bat smashed my windshield. Thug number two … walked away?

I didn’t have time to worry about him. I had worse problems. While the spell disk the guy in the suit had broken didn’t seem to have done anything, I could feel the magic of it filling my car. And my spell disk, my very reliable, guaranteed by the manufacturer shield spell, failed. I felt the magic start to build, but then it hit what was already in the car and just died.

Oh, shit.

I grabbed my gun, switching off the safety as Slugger continued to rain blows on my windshield. Safety glass began to crumble and a small hole appeared. Suit tossed a spell ball to the Slugger, then dived for cover. In the instant it took me to turn and take aim through the broken windshield, the thug with the bat managed to crack the ball open and drop it through the hole.

I froze, victim of a variation of the full-body binding spell that my ex-boyfriend had developed at my request.

Irony blows.

I got to sit there, completely motionless, barely able to breathe, watching as thug two returned and nimbly broke into my car. He hauled my unresponsive ass out like a sack of groceries, then set me down on the gurney he’d brought from one of their vehicles.

At that point Suit started disarming me, then cutting my clothes off—in full sunlight, with no sunscreen. With exquisite care and a little sound of admiration, he set aside my knives and their sheaths, along with my Colt. My ring, too, was set aside as if it were a weapon. It was infuriating and humiliating to be so utterly helpless. The man could have done anything he wanted to me and we all knew it. But this was just business to him, and he was careful and respectful: no leering, no wandering hands. I might as well have been a mannequin in a store window for all the interest he showed.

When he had me down to my lacy pink bra and panties, he muttered another spell, which loosened the binding a little. Not enough for me to move, but enough for me to be moved. Then Suit pushed, pulled, and prodded my body until I was lying on the gurney. Done, he walked away, leaving the thugs to wheel me down to the beach. I couldn’t turn my head to see him climb into his SUV, but I heard the engine start up and the crunch of gravel as the vehicle pulled onto the highway.

I wondered what was to come next.

9

Down on the beach, the black thug busied himself laying out a cheap beach towel and various accoutrements that would make it look like I was just another girl sunbathing on the rocks by the ocean. Slugger had left his bat up by the car and was taking advantage of his colleague’s distraction to steal the diamond studs from my ears before copping a gratuitous feel. I couldn’t do a thing to stop him. He was just beginning to slide his hand up my thigh toward the lace edge of my bikini underwear when his buddy, who was coming back to the gurney by then, caught a glimpse of what was happening. He struck like a snake, slapping away the offending hand.

“Don’t even think about it,” he growled. “Our orders were clear. Nothing sexual, nothing that would leave DNA or trace evidence, and no stealing her stuff.”

“What they don’t know—”

“Will get your ass killed,” he snarled. “And maybe me with you. Hands off!”

“Oh, yeah? How’re they going to find out? You plannin’ on rattin’ me out?” Slugger glared at the other man, his hands tightening into fists.

With a derisive snort, the first guy said, “I won’t have to. Trust me. You do not want to cross this man. We got our money. We’re finished here. We need to take off before somebody comes along and calls the cops.”

Slugger didn’t argue, but I could hear him muttering “waste of a fine piece of ass” and “never had a princess before” as he slipped my jewelry into his jeans pocket.