Chapter 37

They were almost to the Tsigule Cliffs. The boulder Jameson had held Cora up against, serving her the way he loved best, was barely visible from the road.

Cora pointed. “You really think this is where I lost my resonant?”

“I hope.”

She considered. “I love those cliffs. The wind. I’ve been driving out here once a month since I moved to Five Hills. It’s a great place to recharge.

Jameson threw her a look.

“What?” she said.

“There’s a coven house up there. Or used to be one.”

She stared at him. “Oh. And that’s where we-” She stopped talking, but plunged the index finger of one hand in and out of an O made by the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. “I’m the coven whore already, good deal.”

Jameson threw his head back and howled with laughter. “Yep, right up against that boulder. Carick said it has its own magic.”

She nodded solemnly. “I felt it. Big magic.”

Jameson laughed again. “Are you joking?”

“Sometimes.” She winked at him. “But not about the big part.”

He pulled into the parking area. Within a moment they were heading for the boulder on foot, the long grass and buds of baby’s breath in the vast, empty field behind it nodding in the wind.

The ground shook under their feet and they stopped. From Jameson’s height he could see over the boulder, track the exact moment the ground began to ripple, then split.

“Whoa,” Cora breathed.

Jameson pulled her into his arms, moving them to where she could see. He knew exactly what was going to happen. What was going on fell into his mind like a dime in a piggy bank. Breath coven was returning. He and Cora had caused it. Somehow.

The house appeared as if by magic, hazy first, then solidifying, like it had always been there. But they’d never seen it before. Impossible. Still happening.

A driveway curved around the boulder, consisting of cinnamon-colored bricks planted in sunburst patterns curving for dozens of feet. They dumped his eye right at the entrance to the biggest, most luxurious Spanish-style Hacienda he’d ever seen.

Cora slid her hand out of Jameson’s and ran toward it. He knew better than to try to stop her. She sprinted the last few feet, then stopped short, staring.

An archway of artisanal stone was cut into the Spanish-abuela pink stucco, shading a door of heavy wood and wrought iron. It swung open, making Jameson sprint up the drive after his mate. She didn’t need him, but he needed to be there. Above her head were cylindrical turrets at two corners of the building. Overlapping clay tiles made up the roof, and wrought iron flanked balconies and vibran window boxes, each littered with ivy. The place looked like the churches in Old Westerns, but fancier, bigger, more.

She stepped inside and stopped short, staring at something on the ground. Jameson skidded to a stop behind her.

A box. No, more than a box. A present.

Cora dropped to her knees to examine it, exclaiming softly and pushing her chestnut-brown hair out of her face, holding it near her shoulders with both hands in that way Jameson loved. The door shut behind them.

The heavy box, about the size of a jewelry box, was very obviously made from burnished silver, whirling designs filigreed on the face. A silk bow, forest green, was tied around the entire thing.

Cora only stared. Jameson touched her shoulder gently. “It’s for you, babe. Open it.” Anything could be in that box. Anything good. He felt the goodness of the house in his bones, in his Instinct. Home.

She reached out a hand that barely trembled and untied the bow, then lifted the lid. Green velvet the exact shade of the bow lined the box. On top of it sat Cora’s resonant.

“No way,” Cora breathed, taking it out and clasping it to her chest. She turned in a circle, looking up at the squat ceiling. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The house seemed to pulse back. Just a flash. A trick of the eyes? Too much sex? Jameson rubbed his eyes and tried to see it again. Nothing.

Cora pulled her sheath out of her bag, put the resonant in it, then fastened the thing around her waist and dropped her bag in the corner. Jameson took a step back so he could see her ass with the belt cradling it. Perfection. Art. Heaven. His cock swelled in his pants and he let it swell. Somebody had to have sex today. Why not him?

But she was already moving deeper into the house. She picked up the box, moved through the foyer, into the dining room. Jameson counted the chairs at the massive dining table. Fifteen. He could imagine it not being enough, imagine switches and shifters spilling out into the living room with their plates of food, talking raucously, laughing, telling stories of the hunt, teasing. Loving each other like family. This house had last seen shifters from his time. Jameson could see it in the jackets that hung on rough hooks, the work boots that were obviously hand-made, the furniture that had been hand-lashed and sewn.

Cora put the silver box down on the table, her eyes on three plates that still sat there, rustic metal forks and spoons left askew, like they’d been carelessly dropped as shifters shot to their feet and ran to attend to something. Dinner was on the plates, half-eaten, looking as delicious as it had the day it was abandoned there. Wild hare and dandelion greens. Water in their glasses.

Shit. This place was gonna fuck with him.

Cora slid her palm into his and peered into his face. No. He could handle it. With Cora beside him, he could handle anything.

They moved deeper into the house. A chalkboard hung on one wall, a message scrawled across it.

Vampires in the forest! All must rally at Bond house

Jameson shivered, the horrors of the day coming back to him. Cora squeezed his hand and they receded.

She pulled him farther into the house, through the open living area. A green hair ribbon lay over the arm of one chair. A Civil War-era saber rested against the wall. He pulled his hand out of Cora’s, not able to speak, and went to it, picking it up. Not too heavy, but it would become so during battle. This was not a switch weapon. Not a switch Cora’s size, anyway. His father had had a sword like this one, but shorter, less deadly looking.

Books were stuffed in an overflowing shelf just behind the living room furniture. Cora angled that way, then was distracted by an open door to a room. They went in together. It was a large bedroom, dominated by a king-sized bed covered with white cotton linens, neatly made. Jameson caught an image of a big male bending over it, making it for his switch because she liked it made, but always ran out the door to start the day before she remembered to do it.

Hand-hewn wooden doors opened to a balcony that looked over the back meadow. The cliffs towered in the distance, the ever-present wind swirling the tiny white blossoms of baby’s breath in rough patterns. Baby’s breath. Clever coven.

Cora moved straight for the bookshelf that was built into the far wall, covering it from floor to ceiling. She caressed the books affectionately. “We’re moving in, right?”

Jameson grabbed her hand and pulled her into his body. “We are,” he said.

She pecked him on the cheek and pulled him out the door. “Come on, let’s find a room for Auntie.”

Aw, yeah. Auntie was sooo moving in here.

The light in the house changed, drawing their attention to the front door. It had swung open. They exchanged a glance and headed that way.

Flint walked up the path, his eyes bugging out of his head, a six pack of beer in his hand. The expensive shit.

Jameson smiled, glad to see his friend. Cora held back a bit, holding tight to Jameson’s waist.

“What in the hell took you so long?” Jameson growled.

Flint held up the six-pack. “I had to stop for beer so you would let me into your new, fancy digs.”

Jameson gestured at him. “Your fancy digs, too.”

A black crotch rocket zoomed into the driveway, pulling over and parking next to Flint’s older-but-perfectly-maintained black Range Rover. The motorcycle operator wore leathers and a black helmet with a shaded face guard, but they all knew who it was.

Flint snarled. “That fucking cat.” Riot.

“Your new roommate.”

Flint tried. “Only if I get the biggest room.”

Jameson motioned he should come into the house. Cora stepped aside to let him in, not looking at him. He didn’t look at her either. “Go pick one out, bear. Save us the one off the living room.”

Riot took off his helmet, left it on his motorbike and headed toward them, his face showing the same wonder Jameson was still feeling.

Riot didn’t say a word, just nodded at Jameson and stepped inside, moving through the house, going the opposite way of Flint. Jameson spied a sign over the door, two sentences burned into a slab of petrified wood.

Resperanza: Breath of Hope Coven

Own your breath, that none may steal your peace

Cora would love it. He tried to point it out to her, but she was already pulling him back to the room they’d chosen. “You get exactly one chance to fuck me on these ancient mattresses before I call Ikea to bring in new shit.”

Jameson let him pull her. What else was there for him to do, but exactly what his woman wanted from him?

Nothing.