Witch For Hire (Witch For Hire 1)

I scoff. “No. That was all an act. A power play.”

“You can’t believe that,” she whispers. The sympathy in her voice makes me growl.

“You don’t do what he did to someone you love,” I lash out before I can feign indifference.

“Not if you’re human.”

“Felicite.” It’s an old argument we’ve agreed to disagree on.

She sighs. “Okay, I’ll change the topic … but you do realize you’ll be seeing him soon, right?”

I grind my teeth together to keep the unpleasant words from coming out of my mouth. She’s not the one who deserves my anger.

“Trust me, I’m aware. I’m hanging by a thread, taking things one day at a time, and generally trying not to freak out. I made decisions I’m not proud of, and now I’m going to pay for them.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. No one’s perfect. Especially not at that age. This is a new start, not a continuation of that time when you left.”

Her words penetrate my wall of shame and guilt. “What would I do without you?”

“Be crazier than you already are. I need to leave to head into work. Whatever you need from me, you know where to find me.”

“I know. Love you, Fel.”

“Love you, too, Lou Lou.”

Warmth settles in my chest. There’s nothing like having family. Despite the underlying current of tension, I’m ready to be back among them. I need to remember this moment after I return and wonder what the hell I was thinking.

As I continue to pack, my mind wanders back to Cristobal. Once he was the person who my world revolved around. I was never a naïve woman. My mother taught me about the birds and the bees the minute my first menses hit. Sexuality was handled differently in my home.

A woman’s body was her own, and as long as you took the proper precautions and thought with your head as well as your heart, sex wasn’t viewed as a sinful thing. It was an exchange of power. I was taught to be sure the man you shared your strength with was worthy of the gift.

That sort of thought process made me selective. Attractive boys with silver tongues and no intention of sticking around held no appeal to me. Being an Esçhete only made things more difficult. We have a reputation for not being ones to trifle with. It made a young boy in the area think twice.

I dated, but nothing ever got too serious. Then I hit twenty-one, and I caught the attention of one Cristobal Cortez. I haven’t permitted myself to dwell on thoughts of him in past years. It seems fitting I break the rule by remembering the beginning.

PAST

I wrap the black shawl tighter around my shoulders as I approach the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. The white shift offers little to no protection against the cool night, but the ritual requires it. I unlock the gates with a thought and push them open.

They creak, breaking the stillness of the night. Large oak trees reach up toward the heavens. Their leaves look black in the moonlight as they atte

mpt to blot out the sky with their thick branches. They’ve been here longer than I’ve been alive. The grayish white mausoleums stand like soldiers guarding the dead. I easily navigate my way toward the agreed upon grave.

I grew up with the rows as part of my education. Crickets chirp, and an owl hoots. An omen of death. I turn my head to the side and instantly know this is my client. No mere mortal could look so much like the devil. Lucifer was the most beautiful of all angels, and the dark-haired man not ten yards away from me is so breathtaking I want to weep.

I blink and find him less than a foot away. Their speed can be unsettling. I’d been so stunned by his exterior, I forgot myself. Up close I can fully appreciate the high cheekbones, broad forehead, and strong jawline. His eyes are a dark brown with flecks of gold.

“Louella Esçhete.” His voice is dark velvet—smooth, sensual, and sophisticated. He’s older. I can taste his power in the air. It’s embedded in his mannerisms as well.

I give a slight curtsy. “Enchanté, Cris Cortez.”

His eyes twinkle. “Cristobal to someone as lovely and powerful as you.”

My stomach flutters. Flattery isn’t new, but it feels different coming from this man. Names have power. Offering up his full moniker is a bold move. Red flags wave. When you try to put someone at ease, it’s usually because you don’t want them to look too closely at what you’re doing.

“Because we are amis, you may call me Lou.”

The corners of his lips quirk upward. My stomach flip-flops once more. I’m in trouble with this one. I turn my thoughts back to the business at hand. “Shall we begin?” I ask.