Devil’s Mate(8)

“He was, wasn’t he? I was terrified!” Her laughter was real.

Sebastian stared at her. Cara was gorgeous. Her brown eyes were fringed with thick, heavy lashes that lay like fans on her pale cheeks when she looked down. Her mouth was as full and ripe as a berry and just as red. Not a trace of lipstick on it, either; that hue was natural. Her body was slender yet curved, and there was a vulnerability, an innocence in her face that belied her use of magic.

That was unusual. He’d never before met a witch or caster who’d had a shred of innocence left. She was young, though, about eighteen or just a little older. Maybe she hadn’t used her magic enough to have lost her innocence. Perhaps she wasn’t from a family of casters; maybe she was a natural and didn’t yet know the extent of the magic, or what it could do to one’s soul.

But she knew about rogues, and she knew about the Hunters. Was she a lone Hunter? He’d heard of them but he’d never met one. Most preferred to travel in groups for safety.

Whoever she was, she was doing a number on him. She was making his mind wander to all sorts of delicious places. His eyes traveled down the creamy column of her throat the heavy silver necklace she wore and a small frown creased his brow. She also wore silver bangles on her arms. Maybe she was a lone Hunter, in which case he’d better be damned careful.

No — he had to be damned careful. Her being a Hunter was the only thing that made sense. She’d sought out a rogue and had been battling it when he had come across her. He’d been hunting that rogue as well, and he wondered if she had guessed that yet.

“Are you from here?” he asked.

“New Orleans?” Cara pronounced it “N’awlins,” like most of the natives of the city. Her accent was rich and thick, but underneath it, he detected something else, something liquid and almost foreign. “Pretty much. How about you?”

“No, I just got into town.”

“Are you here to stay?”

“I’d like to be. I’m a little tired of always moving.” Where had that come from? Sebastian shifted in his chair. He cursed himself for speaking so openly. Now he would have to try to explain all the places he’d been, and how he’d managed to do that.

On the outside, he still looked twenty five. He was in his prime, and it showed in his lean muscles and smooth skin, but he was almost 300 years old. Werewolves were long-lived; the only thing standing between them and true immortality was their need to look and live like humans as much as possible. It sapped their strength, and it wore them down. It was part of the reason why so many went rogue.

“So what do you do when you’re not trapped in an alley with a rogue?” he asked.

“Oh, I go to college. I’m Pre-Law.”

“Wow, that’s impressive.” So she had a sense of justice. Something about that niggled at the back of his mind but he couldn’t lay his finger on it.

“Oh, thanks. My family wants me to be a defense attorney pretty badly.” She took a long drink of her coffee and stared down into the cup.

“And what do you want?”

“To be a prosecutor.” She looked away and he knew she hadn’t told anyone else that, not even her family. That was curious, and if there was anything that Sebastian knew, it was that curiosity was often provoked by an instinctive sense of danger. It was usually best to know one’s enemies very well.

But how could this lovely young woman be an enemy? He didn’t want to believe she might be but the proof was there on her neck and wrists, in her actions, her magic and her ambitions.

The coffee was finished, but neither of them wanted to leave the coffee shop, or each other. They began a casual conversation just to linger, and before long, Cara found herself describing her professors and classmates as well as her latest reading list.

Part of her longed to have a deeper conversation; she wanted to talk about the rogue, and yet she was afraid to. Most guys were not suited to her and she knew it. They either freaked as soon as they saw the bikes in the driveway (one guy had even asked her if she was a part of the Hell’s Angels) or there was no way she could speak freely to them.

Being Rom meant a lot of things. Most people had no idea what Rom, or Romani was — they knew the more derogatory “gypsy.” Immediately she’d be pegged as a thief or a whore. Add in the fact that her father ran the most prolific motorcycle club in the city, and she had to shield herself carefully.

Guys usually thought that she was a gold-digger or easy, and even in a city known for its magic, she was an oddity. She hid her heritage carefully, but despite that, some others saw her anyway, like the fortune teller in the square.