Chapter 5

5

Dracin wouldn’t lookat her directly. Most likely because he didn’t like having her invading his space. At the same time, when he did actually glance over, she finally understood the word smolder. As in his eyes literally heated enough to make her warm. Not the version that required her to remove clothes to cool herself but the kind of warmth that nestled between the thighs and made her want to squirm.

It should be known she didn’t usually have that type of reaction with men. For her, attraction tended to be about a person’s mind and ability to converse, not because he filled out a pair of pants in a way that should be illegal.

Yet something about this man, this shifter, reminded her she was a woman, a desirable one at that. Not that anything would happen. For one, she had no interest in dating; two, she couldn’t be distracted by sex given everything going on; and three, the coven had clear rules about witches and shifters. No hooking up with anyone that wasn’t a witch or warlock. The mixing of species could have strange results, especially where children were involved.

According to what she’d been taught, even if a couple got past the problems with fertility, those mismatched pairings usually produced unviable, and even dangerous, offspring, Medusa being the most famous case of a lamia and a warlock getting together. In some cases, the pregnancy could be fatal to the gestating mother.

As recently as the last century, when a witch or warlock decided to flout the rules for love, sometimes the coven took pre-emptive action and sterilized the pair to ensure no unfortunate accidents. In these modern times, the ease of abortion and birth control had led to the coven relaxing their rules and allowing couples to handle their fertility on their own.

But that didn’t mean they approved. A witch who married outside their kind would find themselves demoted, not something Clarabelle agreed with. A witch’s ability had nothing to do with whom they loved. Tell that to the coven who insisted on following old rules—or to the ones who took more drastic action, and decided to make offenders disappear.

After Clarabelle finished the most delicious eggs and bacon with buttered toast, she felt revived enough to clap her hands and say, “So, where’s the sharp knife?”

“Going to stab me?”

“Slice actually. We need to create an incision for the device to emerge. I’ll also want clean clothes and a bowl of sterilized water, AKA boiled. The knife should also be put to a flame to burn off any bacteria.”

He arched a brow. “I’m pretty sure we don’t have to worry about infection. I’m a fast healer.”

“Even fast healers can be taken down by blood contamination. We can’t know if this device has a failsafe built in to prevent removal.”

That led to him frowning. “Failsafe?”

“It could be that it explodes if tampered with.”

“Pretty sure it’s too small to be a bomb.”

“Fine, then it might short circuit, frying your synapses,” her shrugged reply.

His lips pressed into a line. “Is this your way of trying to talk me out of its removal?”

“It’s me trying to warn you of the possible dangers. This is new technology. As such, we can’t be sure what to expect. Knowing this, would you like to delay treatment so we can study it further? I can make arrangements for a deeper analysis. Although an MRI machine, the best option, won’t be possible given this device most likely has metal components.”

“Fuck waiting. I want it out.” A firm reply.

“I figured as much. Let’s get the supplies then.”

He didn’t speak as he gathered the items requested. She eyed the neat pile. “Any gauze?”

“Nah. No point given how I heal.”

“What about a needle and thread?”

He snorted. “Do I look like I sew?”

“Better hope I can keep the hole small then.”

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted.

With everything she needed at her fingertips, there was no point in wasting more time. “Sit down.” She pointed to the chair she’d vacated—the only one in the kitchen, which meant he’d eaten while standing, leaning against the counter. Before listening to her directions, he cleared the dishes. He didn’t pile them in the sink but rinsed them and put them right in the dishwasher. She had to admit being impressed by how clean he kept his place. While simple and worn, his home didn’t have clutter or a mess. The floors appeared swept and regularly mopped. The countertops wiped down. Nothing soaking in his sink other than the pan he’d just used.

Finally, he plopped into the seat, rigid and stony-faced.

She snapped her fingers. “We forgot to grab the whiskey.”

“Don’t need it. I can handle the pain.”

“Who says it’s for you?” she joked. While not usually nervous about procedures, this one had her a little discomfited. Not the actual incision and extraction itself. She’d done this kind of thing before, usually with bullets and shards of embedded metal and wood. Nonhumans often found themselves victims of hunters and sometimes chose the coven for healing.

Her disquietude came from having to touch him. She found her heart pounding faster than usual. Her palms slightly sweaty. It made no sense.

He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard, brand new she noticed as he cracked it and drank from it without a glass. Several swigs. Then he offered it to her.

She demurred. “I should probably wait until after.”

“Just in case…” He rose and grabbed a glass, pouring a generous amount. “Now I don’t have to worry about drinking it all on you.”

“What happened to you can handle it?” she teased.

“I can, but my inner beast? Kind of freaked.”

The way he spoke as if his animal had a mind of its own… Intriguing. She’d not had much to do with shifters since they usually kept to their packs. They never came to the coven for healing because magic didn’t work on them.

Which suddenly had her blurting out, “Are you sure you don’t want a doctor?”

“Getting cold feet?” He half turned in the chair.

“More like figuring I should mention magic doesn’t work on shifters. While my plan is to try and use finely focused manipulation on the object alone, there is a chance your body rejects my efforts. Are you sure you still want to try?”

“Do it.” A flat reply.

“What if I can’t extract it?”

“Then we’ll see. Now stop stalling and slice me open, Belle.”

Belle. Usually she’d take offense at someone shortening her name. But from his lips…

Ugh. She needed to stop being distracted.

She positioned herself behind him, knife in hand, the blade still warm from the flame she’d run along its edge. She eyed his nape, the hair curling slightly but for one small shaved spot, the tendrils already growing in. A bull’s-eye that meant she didn’t have to draw a circle.

“Hope you don’t mind getting blood on your shirt,” her dumb quip as she geared herself to cut.

“Fucking rag is going in the trash.” With that, he tore it off, leaving her staring at a lot of flesh.

So. Much. Flesh. His broad shoulders leading to muscled arms. Even his back looked like it worked out in sharp contrast to her soft frame. She wasn’t unfit, but she definitely didn’t exercise as much as she should.

“Well, you going to stare all night or cut?” His growled query had her jerking and almost dropping the knife.

She firmed up her grip, gave herself a mental shake, and took in a breath. “This will hurt. Don’t move.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m no stranger to cuts needing stitches.”

The tip of the knife touched his skin, and before she could question her choices, she pushed in, the welling blood hiding the slice as she slitted him as deep as she dared.

She let the blood free flow and set down the knife before calling on her magic and directing it at the hole. A hole that was trying to close.

“Dammit, stop healing so fast,” she grumbled. “I need to slice it again, wider this time.”

“Stick your finger in it.”

“What?”

“A finger or an object will slow it down,” he offered with a shrug.

“I am not sticking my finger in your bloody hole.”

“Whatever, then don’t whine.”

“Ugh, you are insufferable,” she huffed as she sliced bigger this time in a letter X, and then, despite her squeamishness about it, she did poke a finger inside, grimacing at the squishy wetness then sucking in a breath as she touched the hard edge of the object.

“I can feel it.”

“Then get it out.”

Given it was fused somehow to his occipital bone, that would be tricky. Hence the magic. She closed her eyes and focussed, directing the tugging and pulling force on the object only, hoping to avoid the rejection by his shifter genes.

The object stubbornly refused to budge, and she grumbled, “Your body is fighting me.”

“Keep trying. I’ll try and help you.”

She almost muttered “you can’t help” when a strange sensation coated her magic, didn’t just coat but aided it. Twined together, she guided, and the alien magic—the only word she had for it—mimicked what she tried to do, pulling at the device, loosening it from the bone, only to realize—

“It’s got tendrils going through your skull to the brain.”

“Then cut them,” he growled. He made it sound simple.

She kept her eyes closed and manipulated her magic to be fine-tuned enough to shear, only the blood all over the filaments rejected her attempts. The alien magic learned enough to finish the task, snipping the strands until the object floated free. She removed her finger, but before she could grab the knife to pop it free, the tiny rectangular chip emerged in a flood of blood.

She snatched it and squinted at its gory-covered surface. Felt it pulse, faster and faster.

She had only a second to act. She wrapped it in a tight bubble of magic that stifled the mini explosion.

The moment she could, she dropped the shield, sensing exhaustion creeping. She wasn’t done yet. She dabbed at his neck, the bloody flow already slowing, the hole smaller already. Before she could grumble about the lack of a needle, it began healing.

“How do you feel?” she asked, realizing he’d not spoken in a bit.

“Weird. I’ve never had someone use magic on me before.”

She almost admitted she wasn’t the one using it. Yet no denying whatever helped her was magic. Just not hers. But whose? Couldn’t be his. Shifters were immune to magic.

Could it be the Lord Hades had chosen to help his witch?

“Where’s that whiskey?” She grabbed the glass with a trembling hand, more tired than expected. She’d not realized how much she’d been pouring of herself into the extraction. Add in her expenditures earlier with the vampires and she was feeling rather lightheaded.

“Thanks,” he said, standing, a large looming presence that, when she looked up to see his face, had her swaying on her feet.

“I think I need to sit,” was the last thing she said before darkness took her.