Chapter Ten

Greyson sat in the circular room where the Covens Syndicate met weekly and did his best to focus his mind on the discussion. But time and again he found his gaze drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view beyond.

Situated on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada, the modern monstrosity the covens had chosen to erect was as different from his woodsy cabin as a demon from an angel. Constructed from cement, steel, and glass, the structure reminded him of an alien spacecraft. However, it did afford incredible views over the tops of the trees and craggy mountaintops to the towering peak of Half Dome in Yosemite in the distance.

At the moment, Alasdair—the most recent head of the Syndicate and Greyson’s mentor and friend—droned on about the finances. Each individual coven supported itself independently but also contributed to the Syndicate a tax, which was used for mage-wide business. All business was transacted in gold, of course. While they lived in the wider world, they did their best not to be influenced by it or irrevocably tied to it. Alasdair’s report about the gold in their coffers and that in circulation didn’t interest Greyson in the least. Not his department, other than the fact that his paycheck drew from that source.

Consequently, he allowed his mind to wander to a redheaded witch whose spunky vulnerability had him thinking things he shouldn’t. Freckles and toes and lips that made him…

That damn kiss was stuck in his mind. That and the way sharing things with her seemed to lighten the burden. And, if he was truthful with himself, also what she’d said about the warlock. I’m glad you killed him. How had she known he needed to hear that? Needed to know she wasn’t appalled by his actions?

And her advice had been spot-on. The girls had cried as he told them about their mother, but knowing their mother’s killer would no longer hurt them or anyone else had also visibly relaxed them, comforted them.

He’d tried to thank Rowan before leaving, but she’d waved it off. “You already knew what to say,” she said. “You just needed to hear it out loud first.”

But she was becoming an obsession, an addiction. As though he needed her close, needed to hear her voice and know what she was thinking. Get her advice. Let her share the burdens. Have her make him smile. He’d forgotten what laughter in his house was like.

She’s made it clear. She’s just your nanny.

But she was starting to feel like…more. Normally, he’d suspect magical coercion, but the chemistry between them was not remotely forced. Witches had tried to spell him before, compel his affection or even just sex. A subtle difference existed between his body willfully engaging and not—a twitch to his muscles that felt off when not of his own volition. That sensation didn’t appear with Rowan. If anything, every part of him strained to be closer even as his logical mind pulled away.

Greyson shifted in his seat as his body responded to his mental image of her, stubborn chin tilted, red curls in wild disarray, gray eyes issuing both warning and appeal. That husky voice calling him Grey. No one had ever shortened his name like that, and he had to admit he liked it on her lips.

His daughters, in their trance, had said her name, said she was connected. To what? To him? To them? To something else? The curiosity might just kill him before he found out. Because if it was to…

Fuck. He was losing it.

Rowan McAuliffe, in a few short weeks, had managed to capture his attention as no other woman ever had. The problem was, she had his attention as a man, but also as a father…and as a witch hunter. None of those aspects seemed compatible with the others.

But too many doubts about her plagued him.

He couldn’t ignore her wishes to remain employer and employee only. But what he really couldn’t ignore were her powers. Seemingly innocuous. When he’d come up from behind her in the woods, though, she’d ignited energy in her hands without a word uttered, a difficult task for many mages. What really caught his attention, though, was how she’d reabsorbed the energy when he’d revealed his identity. Greyson didn’t know a single witch or warlock with that ability. Energy, once directed into a spell, had to be released.

Which begged the question, why was she working as a nanny? A witch with that skill alone would be useful to the Syndicate.

A tap on his tablet brought up her paperwork, which he’d pulled early this morning before teleporting to this meeting. He’d reviewed it, of course, when Delilah had sent over Rowan’s info as a potential nanny. Nothing then had caught his attention, and nothing now did, either.

He scanned the facts sheet: Rowan Deirdre McAuliffe. Twenty-seven. Born to a low-level witch and warlock with limited magic who died in a car accident when Rowan was eight. Adopted by a witch named Tanya McAuliffe and raised in Dunbar, on the west coast of Scotland, relatively close to Edinburgh, the coven of which she’d been a member since moving to the area. After a series of unimpressive scores in her witchcraft studies, the Edinburgh Coven determined Rowan to be a witch of minimal skill, and she’d worked a series of relatively low-magic jobs since. The latest being as a nanny.

A perfectly normal background, which had the hunter in him concerned. Given the skill she showed in the forest, her history came across as too bland, off in some way. He just couldn’t put a finger on what, exactly. Rowan McAuliffe didn’t add up.

“Greyson?”

He lifted his gaze from his phone to find Alasdair staring at him, thick black eyebrows raised in question. Apparently, he’d missed a question directed his way.

Greyson placed his phone facedown on the table. “Sorry. Reviewing some new info. What was the question?”

“We’ve all read your report. Any updates?”

He didn’t need to check the paperwork. “Marius finally found the witch selling illegal potions to humans in New Orleans. She fought back.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Well, shit, Greyson. We didn’t need yet another example of the Syndicate coming down hard on one of our own.”

Alasdair didn’t have to point out the warlock Greyson had killed. They were all thinking it. “I know.”

That only got a scowl from the man in charge. “Is this going to be a problem with the Voodoo practitioners down there?”

“Marius has already approached the high priestess. Doesn’t look like it.”

“Right. Keep us informed. We can’t have another incident with them. What else? How is the hunt for the witch involved with that werewolf going?”

Lips tight, Grey leaned forward in his seat. “No progress.”

A flash of irritation crossed Alasdair’s otherwise passive face. Grey doubted anyone else caught it, but he’d known the man for years.

“What’s the holdup?”

“Beyond a physical description—red hair, slender, average height, green or possibly gray eyes—I have nothing else to work with.”

“That describes about half the witches in existence.” Hestia, Alasdair’s sister, who sat to the man’s right, leaned forward to speak.

Greyson nodded. “Yes. Approximately five-hundred-thousand witches in the covens meet that description.”

“Have the werewolves stated why they didn’t take her into custody?” Hestia asked.

“They claim they did and gave her to the demigod Castor Dioskouri, a son of Zeus, apparently. A nymph, Lyleia, now his wife, was Kaios’s target in the first place.”

Alasdair waved that statement away, as always uninterested in the affairs of any non-mages. “And this Dioskouri, what’d he do with her?”

“He claims he never had her. However, so far, I’ve had trouble contacting them. They said they’d set up a meeting, but I have yet to hear back.” Not a single call returned in weeks now. Why? Were they avoiding him? “On the way home from this meeting, I plan to stop by Dioskouri’s offices and try to force the issue.”

Alasdair gave a sharp nod. “Good. Employ a truth-teller’s spell. I don’t like that the wolf shifters allowed her to escape. And with werewolves involved… Given their vengeful natures, they’re probably hunting her themselves.”

Greyson dipped his head in acknowledgment, even as he gave a mental grimace.

A truth-teller’s spell took tremendous amounts of energy. More, he suspected, to apply it to a demigod, if that could be done at all. Alasdair knew this, which meant he knew using the spell would leave Greyson weak and unable to defend himself should things go south.

To risk his best hunter, Alasdair must really want this particular witch.

As the meeting broke up, Greyson gathered his things into his father’s old leather attaché case and strode out the double doors. He needed to get outside to teleport. First, though, he needed to make a call.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and searched for a contact.

Delilah.

He hit the button to call and waited for her to pick up.

“This is Delilah.”

“Greyson Masters here.”

“What can I do for you? How’s Rowan?”

Greyson nodded to a few fellow Syndicate members who walked past where he stood just inside the glass doors of the building and waited for them to get farther away. “Actually, I had a few questions about Rowan, if you have a moment.”

A short pause greeted his request. “Is she working out okay?”

How did he answer? “So far she’s been an excellent nanny. A natural with the girls.”

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” came the smooth rejoinder.

“I am.”

“So, what questions do you have?”

“I know you do thorough checks of all employees you staff out.”

“Yes.”

“Rowan’s background indicates she’s a witch with minimal powers. However, the other night she was able to manifest energy as a defense.”

“She threw energy at you?”

While her tone didn’t exactly change, he could picture Delilah, with her catlike dark eyes and long ebony hair no doubt perfectly coifed, sitting forward in her seat. He’d gotten her attention with that, which meant she didn’t know.

“She didn’t throw them once she realized it was me. I take it by your reaction, you weren’t aware of this ability.”

“Well, someone should throw some energy at your stubborn head someday.” Now lazy amusement laced her voice.

Greyson frowned. Was she avoiding the question?

“Yes, I was aware of this ability,” Delilah continued, shutting down his suspicion.

“Then why not list it in the information? For that matter, why is she a nanny with a power like that?”

“Rowan can’t control the power. It’s a reflex that started when her parents were killed. She was in the car with them, as you know, since you read her bio. A defense mechanism, it rarely manifests. You must’ve scared her badly. What were you doing?”

Now Greyson didn’t want to answer the question.

“I frightened her when we bumped into each other in the middle of the night.”

“I see.”

Now why did he get the uneasy feeling she knew exactly what they’d been up to that night—not just the girls, but that explosive kiss?

“Well, I hope I’ve adequately addressed your questions. I’m surprised you didn’t just ask her.”

Greyson stood up straight, not enjoying the mild rebuke, not to mention the slither of guilt that he’d gone behind Rowan’s back with this. “I will next time.”

“Good. Though feel free to check with me any time.”

“Thanks.” After their goodbyes, Grey hung up and slowly tucked his phone back into his pocket. His conversation with Delilah made total logical sense, but something was still itching at him.

Stop being a hunter for a second, and just trust the woman.

First, though, a stop-off in Austin, Texas, to talk to a demigod and a nymph.