Kicking It(43)

“Yes. And I would’ve taken you to them right away, except I thought those boots were giving you more powers than a human should have. But it wasn’t the boots at all.”

“No,” I said quietly. “It wasn’t.”

Even though he had the shotgun trained on me now, I wasn’t about to go with him. I threw caution to the winds and called on my muscle memory to get me through this.

I made a low run at him, as if I were going to tackle his legs, but instead I sprang, jarring the shotgun up. He didn’t fire it as the weapon flew out of his grip, and as I spun and kicked up, my boot thudded against his head. He crashed to the ground. I pinned him as I’d done before.

All he did was smile, yet it was a sad one. “The Meratoliages won’t stop. There’ll always be someone coming after you.”

I could see his face more clearly, now that dawn was threatening. Beautiful gray eyes and a mouth that looked . . .

I don’t know the reason I did it—I wondered whether I often gave in to impulse—but I bent down, pressing my lips to his. Warm, soft. My boots seemed to twine round themselves even more, as if hugging themselves. I felt the same sensation in my belly until I pulled away.

We locked gazes, and in that endless second, I knew that he was too good to trade me in for money.

“You walk away,” I said. “Hitch a ride to the main road. If you stay away from me, you might even get your bike back someday.”

“I’d better.” His voice was a whisper, as if he’d been affected by the kiss. But when he assumed that arrogant smile, I knew he would never say it aloud. “You’re a real survivor, Lilly.”

“You remember that.”

I wasted no time before pushing myself off him and grabbing the shotgun, plus the revolver. I even went to pull my knife out of the Meratoliage, thinking that I would ask Amari’s student to quickly come here and fetch the body before the animals got to it so the witch could put a stay-dead-forever spell on it, just in case. I didn’t think I had the time to drag it back before the dawn—and the boots—took over my body.

Philippe knew what came next. He stood, looking over the tips of the trees at the first signs of sunlight. “You’d better get.”

“You’d better get first.”

He nodded, then paused, grinning. When he bowed at the waist, as he’d done when I’d first met him in the shop, my stomach warmed again.

But then he began walking, down the road, out of my life. Or what I had of it until the sun arrived.

I began moving the other way, glancing over my shoulder once, only to find him looking back at me, too, still walking away, keeping his promise.

The foreign warmth in me wavered, making me wish he wouldn’t keep his vow, but I continued forward as the sun grew stronger. Then I ran the rest of the way toward the cabin, heading to a home for the first time in perhaps ever.

Heading toward my own destiny, whatever it might be.





THE DEVIL’S LEFT BOOT





BY FAITH HUNTER





Liz tossed the rag into the dishpan and lifted it to take the dirty dishes to the kitchen. Seven Sassy Sisters Café and Herb Shop used heavy country china and good-quality stainless flatware instead of the cheaper stuff. The customers liked the quality and the homey atmosphere, but being busboy—or girl—was tough on her back.

“I’ve got it,” Cia said, and scooped the heavy pan out of her arms. “Share and share alike,” she added. Liz’s once reticent and introverted twin had been doing a lot of that since Liz’s injury. And it wasn’t necessary. So, okay, Liz got short of breath. And her ribs hurt sometimes. She was still healing, and no one could expect complete and instantaneous recuperation after having a huge rock land on her chest in the middle of a magical attack. By their own coven leader . . . and elder sister.

Grief welled up again, and Liz blinked furiously against the tears. Evangelina’s death had hit all the sisters hard, but the four witch sisters had felt her death most deeply because they had also lost a coven leader, and by the foulest means—addiction to demons. Although the actual cause of death had been a knife blade to the torso, the Evangelina they had grown up with and practiced their craft with for their whole lives had been dead for months before that.

Liz sighed, feeling the weakness in her ribs, a slow, low-level pain, and pulled out a clean rag to wipe down the next table. She was polishing the final booth, standing by the front door, when the flashy red Thunderbird wheeled up and parked. It wasn’t a practical car for Asheville, but it was memorable, and that was what the driver wanted—to be known as an icon in her hometown. Liz huffed out a breath and called, “Cia! Company. And not the good kind.”