Black Soul, White Heart (Black Hat Bureau 3.50)

6

Perhaps Hiram ought to have lied, told her black witches were a threat dreamed up by parents to keep naughty children in line. He might have explained them away like monsters under the bed, only real if you believed in them. But the girl—Howl—was more than the temptation of her beating heart. She was an altogether new threat to his hard-won self-control, an unexpected revelation.

To sit beside her was to want, and to want was to take, and to take was to snuff out this bright spark.

“Yes,” he rasped. “I’ve met black witches.”

“Are they as terrible as Papa says?”

“They’re evil creatures.” He wet his lips. “Slaves to their hunger.”

“What craving brought you here, Saint?”

The nickname struck him like a blow every time she used it as if she believed it.

There were no saints. Only sinners. Only killers. Only wants and needs and…her.

“Father has business interests in the area,” he hedged. “I came ahead to scout for other prospects.”

The truth, that his father was the incoming threat he warned her about, he hoped to avoid. Let her think he ran afoul of bad people, not that he came from them. For a few days, he could pretend, couldn’t he?

“Hmm.”

The soft noise drew his attention back to her, the gentle curve of her jaw, the wide eyes burdened with innocence, the faith she placed in him to return her hearty and hale to her home. “What does that mean?”

“Did you find any?” Howl worried her hands in her lap. “Prospects?”

Yes.

A whole family of white witches bloated on years of comfort and wealth.

A meal to feed the entire coven.

A fresh black mark on his already damned soul.

“No.” He refused to encourage her. “I won’t be back.”

“One more week.”

It was and wasn’t a question.

“One more week,” he agreed, damning himself that much more. “Then I leave.”

“All right.” She rose to her feet, her mouth an impish curl. “You promised me a run.”

Without giving him a chance to stand, she sprinted down the road, her laughter intoxicating.

His shoes weren’t meant for running, but he had others if he ruined these.

“Saint, you slowpoke.” Howl sang into the wind, “Catch me if you can.”

Spurred by her merry taunts, he threw himself into the chase, allowing her to stay ahead but only just.

“You must not want the prize.”

The girl was barely winded. No. Not the girl. Not anymore. Not Amalthea either.

She was Howl.