Monster (A Cassidy Edwards Novel - Book 1) (6 page)

“Ah, it’s 
that
 one,” she suddenly said, perking up for the first time to look over at me with interest. “You’re a courageous young gal now, aren’t you?”

Crud. I didn’t like where this was going. “Why?” I asked. “What grade am I getting?”

“Grade?” Bertha snorted. “You’ll see.” Tossing a grin over her shoulder, she disappeared through the vault door.

“What does that mean?” I asked Heath.

I wasn’t really surprised when he just turned his hands palms up and shrugged. Tabitha wasn’t helpful, either, but then, I wasn’t surprised by 
that
, either.

Bertha returned and thumped a tiny red clay bottle with a battered cork onto the counter.

“Here you go,” she said with an unconcealed sigh of relief. “Can’t say I’m sorry to see this one go.”

I picked up the tiny bottle and held it at arm’s length. I couldn’t see any letters on it, nothing to proclaim its grade, although there was some kind of Arabic-looking script running along its base.

I frowned, puzzled.

“It’s a rehab,” the woman informed me before I could ask.

A rehab? “A rehabilitated imp?” I asked, astonished.

Bertha and Tabitha both grinned in a way I didn’t appreciate.

Heath looked more sympathetic.

“What grade is it now, then?” I asked, feeling cheated. “D? F?”

“A rehab is short for rehabilitee, but I’m sure it’ll be just fine,” Heath said, trying to sound optimistic.

So, it hadn’t even been rehabilitated yet. It was an imp with some kind of problem. Great.

“Rehabs are ungraded,” Tabitha took great pleasure in informing me then. “They’re the rejects, the trouble-causers. They’re cheaper than the others because they’re so unstable. Not exactly trustworthy.”

“Figured as much.” I snapped.

In a darkening mood, I stuffed the imp bottle into my suitcase and followed Heath and Tabitha back to the car.

Moments later, we were zipping past the airport terminals and turning onto a gated, private road protected by several security guards. As soon as Heath rolled down the window, they waved us through, and we sped around the hangars and up to a private jet waiting on the edge of the runway.

Pleased I wouldn’t have to pack my knives after all, I followed the others, lugging my suitcase with its bottled imp behind me.

A Personal Vendetta

Once aboard the private luxury jet, I saw that it had two lavish white-leather seats at the front, a bar in the back of the wood-paneled cabin, a conference table, and six blue-leather seats in the center of the craft. They were slightly smaller than the white ones.

Tabitha waved me towards the blue seats, and after storing my luggage in an overhead bin, I settled comfortably into my assigned place and buckled my seatbelt. A complimentary travel bag tucked into the magazine pocket held a pair of fuzzy socks, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and several wet-wipes.

Shaking out a folded blanket and spreading it over my knees, I watched Heath fall across the seats opposite me. He covered his face with a magazine, evidently preparing to take a nap.

Tabitha, of course, sat right by my side. Apparently, she found staring at me with her unblinking eyes highly entertaining. Passive aggressive was an understatement when it came to her.

But I didn’t really care. I’d rather have her sitting there engaging in obvious intimidation techniques than stirring up real trouble behind my back.

No one spoke for a bit.

After a time, Tabitha unclasped a white purse and, taking out a small glass bottle of henna dye, proceeded to paint Nordic runes on her hands.

More time passed, and the plane remained still.

Gradually, my temper began to stew.

Of all things, I disliked hypocrites. Lucian detested waiting, but he certainly didn’t mind making others wait for 
him
.

“Is Lord Rowle always this late?” I finally grated.

I didn’t really expect an answer. Heath was snoring, and as a rule, Tabitha seemed to take pride in withholding information.

But this time, she actually answered, “He’s late only when suffering from a particularly foul mood.” She paused to blow the henna pattern covering her hand. “You have no one to blame but yourself. His mood changed the moment you left the interview.”

“It’s nothing 
I
 did,” I said in my defense.

“What did you say to him?” she asked, clearly not believing me.

He’d been fine until the subject of Castle Llewellyn had been brought up. “Castle Llewellyn …” I began, but I let my voice trail away as a look of utter shock crossed her usually emotionless face.

Heath sat bolt upright. Tossing his magazine aside, he looked at me with his jaw dropped wide open. “Hey, you didn’t actually mention that castle in his presence, did you?” he asked, his face filled with concern. “Not cool. Not cool at all.”

I didn’t get it. “Spill it,” I said. “Why shouldn’t I have?”

“You really 
must
 be a hermit,” Tabitha inserted in a low voice. “He’ll never forgive you.”

Patience wasn’t my strong suit. Tapping my toes, I asked, “Care to enlighten me why not?”

Heath just sat there, wagging his head in disbelief. “Profound,” was his only contribution.

I wondered if all werewolves were such bad communicators.

It was Tabitha who finally explained. “Castle Llewellyn is the symbol of his family’s power. Once the Rowles were at the apex of society. For centuries, they ruled the Charmed from Llewellyn. Now Llewellyn is the symbol of their failure—how far they’ve fallen.”

“How did they lose it?” I asked, although I was already beginning to form an idea.

Heath's next words confirmed it. “Dorian Ramsey—a Chosen One—had a Terzi Warlock curse them—a curse the Rowles could never break. Cursed the lady of the castle. And once the Lord Rowle of that time lost her, he lost all desire to live as well. Their love was that deep, man. The Rowles were brought to complete ruin and the Terzi rose to power to take their place.”

So, that explained Lucian’s Terzi-bias. Strangely, it made me suddenly like him. I understood personal vendettas.

“This plane is pretty pricey,” I said, glancing around at the custom leather seats and wood-paneling.

“It’s not Lucian’s,” Tabitha was quick to correct. “It belongs to one of his clients. Lucian himself is almost destitute. It’s a tragedy, really.”

I wondered what her definition of destitute was. He’d given me a nice wad of cash, and his office and clothing didn’t look too shabby.

But further conversation was rendered impossible as Lucian chose that particular moment to arrive. It figured. Just as soon as I was getting some useful information.

Ducking his head under the cabin door, he stood there a moment, surveying us with such a critical eye that it took me a moment to realize he was hurt. Minorly, anyway. A scratch marred his cheek. It was bleeding. The top three buttons of his crumpled white shirt were undone, revealing his collarbone and the fact that he was breathing heavy, as if he’d just run to the plane.

Belatedly realizing that he’d done just that, I rose to my feet, knives in hand. I couldn’t smell anyone in pursuit, but I wasn’t sure I should rely on that since I still couldn’t smell Lucian either. A quick look through the plane windows revealed nothing unusual, but it was dark and hard to see.

“They can’t come any closer,” Lucian informed me coolly, drawing my eyes back to meet his.

I had no doubt that ‘they’ meant the Terzi.

I craned my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of them over his shoulder, but the only thing I saw darting up the airstair was a black cat—a carbon-copy of the one that I’d seen by my apartment. As Lucian entered the cabin, the cat followed, weaving itself around his ankles.

Of course. It had to be his familiar. He 
was
 a warlock, after all.

I grimaced. As soon as I had internet access again, I was going to dig my phone out and start educating myself about this newly discovered Charmed world. It was now the highest priority. It wasn’t going to be easy. I mean, I’m sure they didn’t have a “We’re The Charmed – Learn All About Us Here” website, revealing all their secrets. But I couldn’t rely on my scant memory of childhood fairytales to get me by, not when I had to know exactly what I was dealing with in order to ensure I got the information I ultimately wanted—information about Emilio.

Moving with the grace of a dancer, Lucian took one of the cushy white leather seats near the front. And as the black cat jumped up to curl around his shoulders like a living mink stole, I made up my mind.

It was time to change my game with Lucian.

I was pretty good at ferreting information out of men. And though he was a warlock, he was still a member of the male species.

As far as men went, he was extraordinarily appealing. I couldn’t deny the attempt just might be a bit of fun. There was something irresistible about him. Maybe it was the simple fact that I couldn’t smell him. Maybe it was something else.

Whatever it was, I shoved my knife back into my boot and joined him.

He didn’t say anything as I stepped over his long, outstretched legs and settled into the seat next to the window. He’d clearly been in some kind of scuffle. I could see a bruise forming on his left temple and the sheen of sweat glistened on his dark brow.

“Are you hurt badly?” I asked with a trace of genuine concern.

After all, he was my protection against the Terzi, since according to my mother, they weren’t too pleased with me. For whatever reason, I hadn’t a clue, but it was not something I cared to deal with on my own at the moment.

Lucian stared straight ahead as if I weren’t there.

His black cat ignored me as well.

It amused me. I knew a cure for the cold-shoulder treatment—my mother’s favorite weapon of choice. One couldn’t ignore others when they simply refused to be ignored.

Snagging the complimentary travel bag, I dug through it and, finding the wet-wipes, unwrapped one to reach over and dab the scratch on his cheek.

The moment I touched him, I felt his jaw clench beneath my fingers. His jaw was distracting. Hard, manly, with a five o’clock shadow. I had a thing for jawlines, and as far as jaws went, his was superb.

He interrupted my train of thought by drawing his lips together in a grim line. So much for admiring the jawline. I had to concentrate on my goal anyway.

I kept patting his cheek.

He drew a deep breath.

His cat opened a single bright-yellow eye and sent me a look of utter disdain for disturbing its repose before moving to drape itself on the back of Lucian’s seat.

Whatever.

I kept dabbing. My thoughts wandered back to his rigid, sexy jaw. No harm in enjoying myself. I was having an unexpectedly fun time and secretly pleased that he was finding it difficult to ignore me. And anyway, after his unstable behavior during my interview, he deserved a little cat-and-mouse.

The plane roared to life and moved forward.

I took the opportunity to say, “You’re lucky you didn’t have to get stitches, Lord Rowle.”

He expelled a loud breath through his nose.

My mouth twisted, and it was a little hard to suppress a chuckle. I was in control, and we both knew it. He was going to crack soon. Just to rankle him even more, I turned my mothering to his bruise, running the wet-wipe up his cheekbone and brushing a lock of his dark hair back over his ear.

“That’s a nasty bruise,” I said in a husky whisper. “How did—”

“Enough,” he said in a low voice. Still keeping his gaze focused straight ahead, he locked his hand over my wrist, forcing it down on the armrest.

But he didn’t let me go.

Dropping his voice even lower, he queried, “Have you come to make yourself useful, Spell-finder?”

Spell-finder. Just what did spell-finders do? Find spells like magic metal-detectors?

When I didn’t answer, he skewered me with his silvery blue eyes and smiled. It was a shrewd smile. “Well?” he asked, gripping my wrist a little tighter. “Do you sense anything now?”

“No,” I said, wondering if spell-finders were more like psychics. “I can’t smell anything either. Not even your cat.”

Lucian held still.

I realized then I should’ve not mentioned smells. Evidently, it wasn’t how spell-finders worked. But he didn’t mention it, so apparently there was no harm done.

“Your imp?” he asked next.

My imp. The rehabilitee. I’d wanted him talking to me but not in that direction. He was still holding my arm down. I couldn’t very well dab his cheek to distract him now.

“We’ll be in Venice in less than nine hours,” he continued calmly. “Surely, you haven’t a moment to waste in training him.”

Letting an imp out of a bottle was the last thing I would do while on a plane. Especially since I’d never seen, handled, or even read about them before. But their name alone meant trouble. It was a bad idea, plain and simple.

“I have my own technique,” I bluffed.

Attempting to regain control of the conversation, I leaned into him.

He went silent again but let go of my arm.

This time, I had a sneaking suspicion that silence from Lucian wasn’t a good thing after all. Maybe I could get him to divulge information. Clearing my throat, I said, “The amulet.”

He waited, staring straight ahead and still silent—exactly what I didn’t want him to do.

The power was definitely shifting from me to him. I had to get it back.

The plane was accelerating, and though I knew I should remain seated for takeoff, there weren’t any flight attendants running around to pester me about it.

I formed a quick plan to catch him off-guard.

He was clearly a woman-magnet. That woman in the mall had been all over him. Woman-magnets had to possess 
some
 kind of chivalry—at least the basics.

As the plane’s nose lifted, I unbuckled my seatbelt and said, “I’ll get it.”

My timing was perfect. I fell right into him. It really couldn’t have worked out better.

Or, so I’d foolishly thought.

My gamble on his chivalrous instincts paid off though.

In a flash, he caught me by the waist and pulled me into his lap, preventing me from falling face-first in the aisle. He was tense. I could feel him heave his chest beneath me in exasperation, just as I’d calculated it would.