Page 28 of Waltzing With Witches

“You can’t rule it with a heavy fist,” the Keeper says softly. “It doesn’t respond to force. Black magic is wild and free, and you have to treat it that way.”

I growl as my fists ball up. “How the hell am I supposed to learn to use it then?”

“You don’t really ‘learn’ black magic in the way you learn the other colors,” he says with a soft smile. “You experience it. You coax it out of you and into what needs healing. You nourish and partner with it, and it’ll reward you tenfold.”

It’s not lost on me that his explanation could be a metaphor for our relationship. We can’t force it, but I feel like if he took the time to understand me, to know me, I’d unfurl into a flower under his touch.

Jesus, that bourbon must still be coursing through my system. I roll my shoulders to shake the sorrowful thoughts out as I glance back at the ward. It still glows a bright green, sunbursting out from my obvious handprint where the color’s brightest. I healed the ward. I want to do more, but exhaustion slips over me like a cold, wet blanket.

“Takes a lot out of you too,” the Keeper says. “Let’s swing by Herschel’s and grab some food, then we can go home, and you can get to bed.”

“What will you do while I’m sleeping?” The question’s out of my mouth before I realize I asked it.

The Keeper’s lips twist into a pursed smile before he responds, “Stare at the grid. Monitor the wards.” His smile morphs into a broad grin that reveals sharp fangs. “Listen to you snore, probably.”

“Preposterous,” I snap. “I don’t snore. Thea or Morgan would have told me.”

He doesn’t answer, pursed lips barely withholding the smile. “All people snore. Let’s go; your stomach is rumbling.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that he’s wrong, but I hold back. We’ve always bickered, ever since the day we met. It doesn’t sit right with me the more time I spend around him. I hate to say I’m coming around to the whole “Keepers are a different breed” argument so many monsters have given me. And I can’t necessarily excuse poor behavior.

But I think I’m starting to understand him a little bit better. Not that it means I’d ever date him. There’s too much water under the bridge for that.

We don’t speak the entire motorcycle ride into town. By the time we get there, I’m falling asleep from the steady thrum of the engine beneath me. The Keeper leaves me to run into the restaurant and returns with a bag full of takeout. He stows it somewhere, mounts the motorcycle, and pulls me close to his chest.

As we speed off into the darkness with his big, warm arm around me, I stop caring about what happened between us in the past. In the pitch-black night, we’re just two people coming to a sort of mutual understanding, maybe even the beginnings of friendship. He offered that. Maybe I should take him up on it.

His arm tightens around me, holding me to his broad, muscular chest. And as we round a corner, the warmth of his arms lulls me into a dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER NINE

KEEPER

I’m done for. My dulling potion wore off sometime during the drive to check the wards. Decades of pent-up emotion have been battering me nonstop. I barely notice the road ahead as Morgan’s sleeping body lies lax in my arms. Using her black magic really took it out of her. Her head has fallen onto my right arm, her neck bared to me.

The urge to strike, to sink my teeth into that beautiful creamy skin, hits me so hard, I stop the bike. A desperate groan rips from my throat. Pale moonlight shines down on her, a vein throbbing slow and dull beneath her skin.

Bloodlust rises, my body tensing and fangs elongating.

I can’t help it.

I bend down, pressing my nose to her neck. Flaring my nostrils, I breathe her in. Candlelight. Chocolate. Whiskey. I drag greedy breaths into my lungs as her heartbeat pulses so close to my mouth. It would be so easy to bite her, to wake her with my teeth buried in her throat.

But I can’t do that to her. Not only because she hasn’t consented, although I would always want that. I’m already taking it too far by scenting her without her knowledge. Cold reality crashes down over me, swallowing me in waves of grief and guilt.

She’s here. Right here. In my arms. Lying relaxed in them like she belongs here, because she does.

I drag my nose along her shoulder, memorizing how every inch of soft skin smells. And then I trace a path back up her neck, where the scent of her blood grows impossibly strong. Drinking her would be like drinking the finest of rare wines. I allow myself a moment before I force my mouth away from her neck.

She trusts me enough to relax in my arms.

I can’t violate that trust. Not now. Not ever.

My mouth fills with bitter blood. My own. I’m biting my lip so hard, I’ve split it. It dribbles down my chin as I kick the bike back into gear and speed for the castle. I’ve got to get her out of my arms and safely into bed. And then I’m comm’ing Moira. If I don’t get my fucking potion, I’m going to lose control.

I run through my options. Morgan can’t stay with me if I can’t get ahold of myself. The risk to her is too great.

When we pull up to the castle, I hope she’ll stay asleep so I can carry her inside and keep her in my arms for longer. But she wakes and stretches, long arms coming alongside my head. I relish the feel of her taut, lithe form moving against me.

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