Page 107 of Which Witch Is Wicked?
Moira snorted. “Having your goons kidnap me and that backstabbing Judas Justine ain’t quite the same as humping the hurt out of somebody.”
“Perhaps.” Lucy looked down at the pointed tip of one nail. “If you have the luxury of not knowing what I know. Your sister now carries within her an abomination that could be the ruin of not only this world, but countless others. As much as you and your sisters would like to ignore that fact, I cannot.”
“Getting knocked up ain’t the end of the world. Hell, where I come from, they have a maternity line of the caps and gowns on account of half the graduatin’ class being—”
“Tierra’s being pregnant isn’t the problem,” Lucy said. Four inches of smooth cleavage just about pressed against Moira’s cheek as Lucifer leaned in to adjust the pillows behind her shoulders. The extra support released a spot that had been gathering tension, and a pleasant burning slid down Moira’s arm. “Men.” Lucy’s pale gold curls tossed as she shook her head. “Sometimes I think they haven’t the slightest idea how to make a woman feel comfortable.”
On this too, Moira felt herself agree, though she wasn’t about to admit it.
“As I was saying,” Lucy continued. “It’s not Tierra being pregnant that’s the issue. It’swhatshe’s carrying.”
“I think they call thembabies,” Moira said. “And I s’pose they can be a kind of nuisance what with the spittin’ up and the poopin’ all the damn time and the hollerin’ for a tit at all hours of the night. I sure seen some rough-lookin’ offspring in my day too. When Skunky knocked up Ruby
Lee, I swear I damn near peeked in its diaper to look for a tail—”
“The antichrist!” Red blotches appeared high on Lucy’s cheeks as she massaged her temples with slim fingertips.
Moira smiled inwardly. If there was one skill she had perfected under Nick Kingswood’s liquid whiskey gaze, it had been the art of annoying the ever-loving shit out of someone bent on makin’ youoohandahhhwith their flat pronunciations of doom and disaster.
Lucy took a deep breath and arranged her features into an expression of concern as she began again. “Your sister is carrying the antichrist.”
4
Nick stormed across the vaulted expanse of the living room in the compound that had become their de facto base of operations since the First Seal’s breaking. He strode straight for the front door, keys to his Ferrari 458 Italia grasped tight enough to dig into his palm.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going? And why does your head look like it got caught in a vice grip?” Dru had momentarily halted his pacing to glower at Nick from his post at the fireplace, now empty, but sporting soot-blackened stone walls as dark and impenetrable as the gaze War fixed on him.
“First, I have an errand to run. Second, none of your fucking business.”
“What errand would that be, pray tell?” Artfully sprawled across the chaise like a poet in the severe throes of writer’s block—or extreme intestinal distress—Julian Roarke, pale as the plague victims he had once infected, looked up from the heavy book on his lap.
“It doesn’t concern you,” Nick answered, his grip tightening on his keys.
“You’ve found a way to get rid of Lucy?” Dru suggested.
“No.”
“You were on the point of disposing of the water witch and remembered that you had regrettably left your bow and arrow in the boot of your vehicle?” Julian pushed a silver-black lock of hair back from his sharp cheekbone with a gloved hand.
“No.”
“You’ve devised a new solution to dispose of the horde of zombies that fucking bitch of an air witch sent to decorate our lawn like a bunch of undead plastic flamingos?” Dru asked.
All three men looked through the oversized floor-to-ceiling window to the thick underbrush and pine trees beyond their shared home.
Disembodied limbs hung from the trees like grisly garlands. Appendages clung to the branches and partially crushed or cleaved heads poked up through the grass like some kind of macabre Easter egg hunt. These remains seemed dedicated to stand—or hang, or loll— guard while their more intact colleagues had shambled off to accomplish an as of yet unknown request at their mistress’s bidding.
Julian cleared his throat. “I would prefer you refrain from using such language when discussing matters pertaining to Aerin de Moray.” The tone of Pestilence’s voice suggested that this polite request was anything but. His pale blue eyes rose from the book on his lap to deliver a glacial warning to Dru.
Dru’s shoulders squared within his fitted black T-shirt. “So you’ll lead her into an ambush, but you’ll get your knickers in a wad when someone usesdirty wordsin conjunction with her name?”
“Like you haven’tbesmirchedClaire’s name, Jules,” Nick tossed out, hoping to fan the flames of their mutual dislike so he could inch unnoticed toward the door.
War advanced toward the chaise with thunderous steps. “You were talking shit about Claire?”
“I can assure you, I am not now, nor have I ever talked—” Nick watched Julian’s elegant mouth try and fail to shape itself into the vulgarity “—in a negative manner about Sinclaire de Moray.”
“Really?” Nick prodded, daring another couple steps toward the door. “So what would you call that whole discussion we had about Claire’sghastly unfeminine leathersmaking her the ideal candidate for destruction? ‘To rid the world of such an eyesore,’ I believe you said.”
