Dylan's Witch: 10 (Supernatural Bonds) by Jory Strong Page B

and introspective,” Electra countered. “Not anything like you. I’m still not.”
    Electra stunned Seraphine by placing her hand on the one she had resting on the table. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch last night. When Alice called and told me Chesna was gone, I was terrified she’d been taken. Then when I found her at your house—”
    “I’m sorry too. It was wrong of me not to call you right away. Our fighting is tearing her apart.”
    “I know. Believe me, I know. I see it in her face every day.”
    Hope slid in at the unexpected turn in conversation, at the honesty unheated by anger. Her heart clenched, because she didn’t want to lose even this little bit of change to their relationship. But she had no choice. “She’s coming into her gifts, Electra. She needs—”
    “Stop.” Electra’s hand tightened painfully on hers while the one wrapped around her mocha trembled slightly. “Please stop, Seraphine. I know you love her. I know you’re scared for her. I am too. I’m so afraid of losing her, and you, because of the magic. Please stop. Tell her witchcraft is all pretend. Swear not to practice it.”
    “How can I do that Electra? How can you ask that of me?”
    She wanted to call Electra on it, to point out that even if she didn’t consciously practice magic, her sister had found a way to integrate her gift—hands that could heal—into her everyday life. Instead she asked, “How can I deny that part of who I am?”
    “For Chesna. Do it for Chesna. You and I are all the family she’s got.”
    Her sister’s hope was like tide over sand, trying to change and smooth and suppress. Her sister’s fear was a battering ram against her senses.
    I can’t, Electra, you know I can’t. But she desperately wanted to understand what had happened to make her sister so afraid of the magic she’d once embraced.
    “What happened to you that summer in Europe?” she asked, and Electra immediately stood, withdrawing her hand and the chance of peace the contact offered.
    * * * * *
     
    Camille’s attention caught on a pair of stunning redheads in front of a café as she paused at a red light before turning. Didn’t see that too often, sisters obviously, though from their expressions, they weren’t getting along very well.
    If she broke up the pair, would the survivor fill with remorse? Think of this last visit together and suffer because of it?
    The colorful off-the-shelf uniform worn by the one standing would make finding her again easy. There was only a single medical clinic in this area, a tawdry storefront operation serving whores, illegals and addicts.
    She passed the sisters, noticing the bracelet on the one still seated. Not a cheap piece of jewelry. It would look good on her wrist if she kept it as a trophy.
    Definite possibilities here, though taking one of them would require more work, more caution. Not that she’d ever shirked from a challenge.
    She traveled another block, thoughts returning to how much she hated being separated from the dagger. Funny how she hadn’t carried a knife in years and hadn’t missed the comforting presence until after she’d taken possession of Lucifer’s Blade. Maybe tonight Mistress would let her handle the athame, before the ceremony, before it was time to make the cuts.
    And if not, then there was always tomorrow. Power was addictive. Helene wouldn’t stop with one summoning. And the athame would need to be blooded again first.
    Camille cruised slowly, shopping for just the right whore. If the victim were hers to play with before killing, then she’d feel like a kid let loose in a toy store. But this selection was for Mistress, a task rather than a pleasure.
    The prostitutes were all up for grabs. They’d feel safe going off with another woman. And for this hunt, drugs were her weapon, an offering—or forced consumption—laced with enough sedative to render her prey harmless.
    On the other side of the street, a Hispanic with long, beautiful hair and nice