Flamebound A Lone Star Witch No(11)

I look at the dark circles under Nate’s eyes and wonder if he’s having as much trouble sleeping as I am. I hope not.

“Where are you with Kyle?” I ask, breaking the uncomfortable silence that stretches between us.

“The D.A. has decided to seek the death penalty. He’ll probably call you today or tomorrow to fill you in. He’s planning on contacting all the victims’ families.”

When I don’t immediately respond, he looks at me questioningly, but I’m not sure what to say to him. Especially since I’m too busy considering what that decision means to focus on an answer that won’t give anything away.

I wonder if the prosecutor plans on contacting Declan, since he was the closest thing Lina, the first Austin victim, had to a family. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to tell him. Kyle was the Council’s hired killer, and right now, Declan’s magic is the only thing keeping them from stepping in and seeing that Kyle evades justice. But once they realize the death penalty is on the table, they’ll up their efforts to break Declan’s spell.

It’s no easy task—the man has so much power it leaks from his every pore—but the Council is filled with some of the most talented practitioners of Heka in existence. It’s not a stretch to think that together they’ll find a way to circumvent him.

Hell, they’ve probably been working on it for the last eight days. Not because they actually care about Kyle—he was just a tool to them, after all—but because the Council has always stood firm on the fact that witches do not stand trial in human courts. Ever.

It’s a carryover from the times when we were hunted, tortured, burned and hanged by people who didn’t understand our powers and what we could do. And while I agree with the Council’s stance in theory—humans do have a tendency to get a little excitable when magic is involved—I still think witches that commit crimes in human society deserve to pay for those crimes by human laws. Three of the four women Kyle killed had no power, and no way to defend themselves against what he did to them. He needs to answer for that. And while I’ve never believed in the death penalty before, I know the blackness of the magic that lives inside Kyle. Letting that magic loose—ever again—is not an option.

I shudder to think what Declan will do if the Council steps in, because not killing Kyle is already eating away at Declan’s soul. I can feel it when he holds me, see it in his face when he thinks I’m not looking. And that eats away at me. I know he’s trying to spare me the pain of it—my power is such that I feel the violent death by magical means of anyone within a certain number of miles from me (I’m not yet sure how far that power extends)—but I’m not so naïve as to think Declan won’t step in if the Council tries to interfere with Kyle’s trial and sentencing. By the time he’s done, there won’t be enough of Kyle left to recognize, let alone rescue.

“How are the families doing?” I finally ask, my voice breaking a little under the weight of my guilt. It’s my fault those women died screaming, my fault they were taken away from the people who loved them.

“The funerals were this week. It was rough.” He pauses, looks uncomfortable. I’m sure he’s remembering that Declan was responsible for Lina’s, that he saw both of us there. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.” It’s my standard answer. Just close enough to the truth that I can’t be accused of lying. Kind of how I’ve lived all twenty-seven years of my existence up to this point.

“You look tired.”

“So do you. Must be something about coming into close contact with a sociopath that makes it hard to sleep at night.”

“Or any other time.”

I laugh, but it doesn’t hold a lot of humor. Because he’s right. For me, the only thing that keeps the horror at bay is Declan. My only nightmare-free sleep comes after he’s made love to me until I’m quivering with exhaustion.

Suddenly I need a break—this conversation is slowly leeching all the joy from me that I felt earlier after being in Declan’s arms.

“Is that all you wanted to tell me? About Kyle?”

I gesture vaguely toward the tables around us, all of which are taken. It’s three o’clock and the coffeehouse is filling up again.

Employees on their midafternoon coffee break.

Students finished with classes for the day, looking for a quiet place to unwind or study.

Tourists combing downtown, looking for a place to wait out the rain, which has turned the air cold and the sidewalks slick.

“Actually, that’s not what I came to talk to you about at all.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out an envelope. “I should have gotten to this sooner. I know you’re busy.”