Circle of Desire (Damask Circle 3)

Gwen considered him for a long moment, then nodded. “Kat, get the crystal.”

“Gran, you need to rest—”

“I feel the need to do this. Get the crystal for me.”

Kat shot an annoyed look the detective’s way, but he absorbed it without impact. She climbed to her feet and retrieved the small ball from the table, handing it carefully to her grandmother.

Gwen eased her feet off the coffee table, then carefully placed the crystal on it. She rolled her neck, stretched gnarled fingers until they cracked, then began to stare at the glittering surface of the ball. After a few moments, her gaze became glassy and unfocused—a sure sign it was working.

Kat walked over to the sink, grabbed a glass of water and a couple of painkillers, then sat back down. There was nothing to do now but wait.

The detective made no noise, no movement, his expression intense as he watched Gwen. He might not believe in psychics and witchcraft, but right now he was obviously desperate and willing to go to any lengths. Even if it meant relying on the unbelievable.

Kat finished her coffee and reached for the herbal pack, then lay back on the floor and placed it over her forehead. The detective’s gaze swept her—something she felt rather than saw. Desire stirred deep inside. Gran was right—it had been far too long since she’d been with a man. And self-administering to ease the ache was certainly a pale substitute.

But by the same token, casual sex had lost its allure. She wanted something more. Something deeper. Something that just couldn’t work, given what she did.

Lord, why did this man have to be a werewolf in the midst of moon fever? She’d been doing all right until he came along, reminding her she had needs just like everyone else.

Time ticked by. The sofa creaked as the detective leaned back. His gaze was a heated touch that began to sweep her more often. Hunger stirred between them, though it was less of a potent force than what she’d faced at the door. He could obviously control it better at some times than others, and she wondered what the deciding factor was. Inactivity, perhaps? Or the touch of the moon itself?

Gwen sighed. Kat sat up, catching the pack as it fell. Her grandmother’s face was ashen, her breathing shallow. Kat scrambled to her feet and grabbed the water and painkillers.

“Here, take these.”

She placed the tablets in her grandmother’s mouth, then held the glass while she drank. Gwen’s fingers were locked in a hooked position, and she wouldn’t be able to hold anything until the rigidness had eased. It could take minutes, or it could take hours.

Gwen’s gaze met Kat’s. The depth of despair and horror so evident in those green depths told Kat it was another bad situation. She swallowed heavily, not sure she could stand it again so soon. She didn’t have the strength—physically or mentally.

“Where?” she whispered.

“Warehouse on Tenth Avenue. First floor.”

Kat rose, grabbed her coat and keys, then finally looked at the detective. His face was expressionless, but his shoulders were taut—an indication of the tension she could feel.

“You coming?”

“Yes.” His gaze flicked to Gwen. “Is it her?”

Gwen sighed. “I don’t know.”

He rose. “I hope to God it’s not.”

So did Kat. Because if the violence so evident in his aura was anything to go by, they didn’t want to be around him when his niece’s body was discovered. She slipped on some shoes, then headed out the door.

“Detective?” Gwen called.

They both paused and looked back.

“Be prepared, because what you’re about to find will not be pleasant.”

“I’m a cop. I’ve seen humanity at its worst.” His voice held an edge that was both anger and resignation.

“But humanity has nothing to do with what is

happening here.” Gwen’s gaze flicked to Kat. “Don’t go too deep. Even surface-level readings will be bad.”

Kat swallowed back bile. It had been bad enough last time. What the hell had the soul-sucker done now?