Page 3

K incaid paused outside the witch’s house.

The place hadn’t changed much since he had been there last—a small, two-story house located in an older section of New Orleans.

A six-foot wrought-iron fence surrounded the property, a thick padlock and chain secured the gate.

A familiar Doberman prowled the grounds.

Thor might have been a great watch dog against mortals, but he had no taste for vampires.

The first time Kincaid had been here, he’d shown the dog his fangs and the Dobie had headed for the backyard.

He did the same thing whenever Kincaid showed up.

Kincaid easily vaulted the fence and rang the bell.

Movement at the narrow window beside the door caught his eye and he saw Izabela staring at him through the glass. A moment later, she opened the door.

She greeted him with her usual question. “Do you mean me any harm?”

“No. I only want to talk.”

He felt her power crawl over him before she unlocked the screen door. With a murmured, “Come in,” she stood back to allow him entrance.

Kincaid followed her into the parlor. The house was larger inside than it looked from the outside.

Little had changed in here since the first time he’d seen her.

The living room was a large space crammed with heavy wooden furniture.

Bookcases held an assortment of volumes intermingled with ivory figurines and other knick-knacks.

A gray Persian cat stretched out along the back of the sofa.

Dark green carpet covered the floor. A one-legged crow hopped back and forth on a wooden perch near a window, watching him through black beady eyes.

Izabela gestured for him to sit down.

Kincaid moved a couple of throw pillows out of the way to make room on the sofa.

Like the house, the witch looked much the same as she had the last time he had seen her, a tiny woman with a mass of long, golden hair streaked with silver, and pale, brown eyes with peculiar yellow flecks.

Her appearance gave no hint of her age. All he knew was that she was very, very old.

And very, very powerful, as black witches usually were.

She settled into a large rocking chair covered by a brightly-colored, fringed throw. “What can I do for you, Jason Kincaid?”

“We have a problem.”

“We?”

“Me and Saintcrow. You remember Luca Sasan?”

Her brow furrowed. “The necromancer?”

“Yeah. Well, somehow he escaped from that black box you magicked.”

She shook her head. “If you captured his spirit correctly, that is impossible.”

“I’m afraid it’s very possible,” Jake said, offering her the pieces of the soul-catcher.

She held it gingerly. “And what do you want of me now?”

“We need to know how to find him.”

Izabela studied him through narrowed eyes. “Are you sure you worked the spell correctly?”

“Damn right.”

“I will have to ponder this. It might take some time.”

“How much time?”

“As long as it takes!” she snapped. “Are you sure he escaped?”

“The box is empty, isn’t it?”

She studied the pieces carefully. “What did you do with this after you captured his spirit?”

“We buried it at the foot of a volcano.”

“Ah.” She sat back, rocking gently. “You should have thrown it into the fire.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us that?”

She shrugged. “I thought you would know.” She set the pieces of the soul-catcher aside. “Fire is the only sure destruction for man or beast. I thought surely a vampire would know that. Why are you looking for him now?”

“The younger vampires in Wyoming are under some kind of spell that’s rendered them unable to move or speak. Saintcrow’s wife is one of them. He thinks Luca might be behind it.” Kincaid’s eyes narrowed as a new thought occurred to him. Izabela might also be powerful enough to create such a spell.

The witch met his suspicious gaze. “It wasn’t me,” she said, a note of anger in her voice. “I should turn you into a toad for even thinking it.”

Kincaid threw up his hands. “All right, all right, I’m sorry. But it has to be someone very powerful, and you’re the most powerful witch I know.” And a black witch at that , he mused. Feeling totally helpless, Kincaid stood and paced the floor. A string of profanity filled the room.

“Turning the air blue will not solve the problem,” the witch remarked. “If you wish my help, I will require the usual price.”

“Right.” With a grimace, he rolled up his shirt-sleeve and bit into his right wrist.

Izabela conjured a small glass container and held it under his arm. Her eyes sparkled as dark-red blood filled the container. When the vial was full, she capped it with a cork.

Kincaid grunted as he licked the wound in his wrist, sealing it.

“I will contact you if I discover anything,” she said. “Good evening.”

With a curt nod, Kincaid left the house, wondering, as always, what she did with his blood.