key. He let himself in, walked through to the living room and felt the cold, sticky presence of Iain Logan.
“Go away.” He was knackered after being up half the night getting rid of Evie. For a wee bitty thing she weighed a ton. Hopefully, attached to a rock, she’d stay put long enough for the fish to eat her to the bone.
A yawn overtook him, stretching his mouth wide. He blinked and looked around the room. He didn’t have time to sleep. He had to look for the journals before that bitch found them. He needed to know exactly what Iain Logan had written before he died.
He checked the bookcase, systematically scanning the titles. Nothing. That would be too easy. He opened the cupboard beneath it. Christ . It was jam-packed with papers. He dragged his hands through his hair. He didn’t have time for this. Why didn’t people sort out their junk?
He sat on the sofa, fingered the amulet, closed his eyes and concentrated on the journals. Where are they? Before he got his answer a chill settled over him and the hair on the back of his neck snapped upright, taut as steel-wire.
“Piss off.” But the spirit didn’t budge. And no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t get an image. He massaged his neck, looked up at the ceiling and smiled. Upstairs.
Wary, he climbed the stairs. His escape route was cut off if the girls came home without warning but he had his amulet, which glowed hot when danger approached.
He went into Sorcha’s bedroom and glanced around. It was a big room, sparsely furnished. He checked the walls, but there were no hidden spaces. Down on his hands and knees he looked under the bed. Aside from one empty suitcase and dust bunnies, there was nothing. He went over to the dresser and pulled open the drawers, one at a time. Searching carefully through her clothes, he got aroused by the soft touch of her underwear. A pair of black satin knickers hooked the ring on his finger. He dangled them in the air, threw them back in the drawer and shoved it closed. The journals weren’t here.
Sorcha’s jewelry box sat on top of the dresser. Inside, silver glistened like moonlight. He ran his hands across the cheap trinkets and lifted a black velvet bag. It was heavy.
Familiar vibrations tingled in his fingertips as he opened it and dropped a pebble-size piece of turquoise into his palm. A protective amulet. Bloody hell! Anger sealed his throat shut.
The sound of a key turning in the front door made him drop the stone in panic. Why hadn’t he felt a warning? Because he was distracted and upset.
He grabbed the stone off the floor, crept to Sorcha’s bedroom door, sliding his feet over centuries-old floorboards. Gently he pushed the door until it was almost shut. He touched the knife at his waist. Heard female giggles. The sounds of bags being dropped and deep, guttural breaths. He closed his eyes and concentrated, saw Carolyn kissing a man. Snogging him so hard she must be sucking on his tonsils. Slut.
They barely made it up the stairs. The guy’s hands were down her jeans, and she was trying to free his dick, giggling and moaning the whole time. They stopped outside on the landing, a mere foot from where he stood on the other side of the door. His hand tightened on his knife and he held his breath.
“Right here. I’m going to do you right here.”
“Oh God, yes.” Carolyn got the guy’s jeans undone and sank to her knees, eyes sparkling as her lips parted.
Oh, fucking magic .
He shifted so he could see more through the crack in the door, only the guy had his hands in her hair, blocking the view as sweet little Carolyn Jamieson went down on him.
Hate seared his veins. Thrown off balance by what he was watching and the way it turned him on, he needed to get out before he used the knife on that prick and wrecked everything. He couldn’t afford to take that sort of risk. He had plans.
So how did he stop Carolyn from sucking off the guy right in front of him?
Smiling, he sent a foul essence
“Go away.” He was knackered after being up half the night getting rid of Evie. For a wee bitty thing she weighed a ton. Hopefully, attached to a rock, she’d stay put long enough for the fish to eat her to the bone.
A yawn overtook him, stretching his mouth wide. He blinked and looked around the room. He didn’t have time to sleep. He had to look for the journals before that bitch found them. He needed to know exactly what Iain Logan had written before he died.
He checked the bookcase, systematically scanning the titles. Nothing. That would be too easy. He opened the cupboard beneath it. Christ . It was jam-packed with papers. He dragged his hands through his hair. He didn’t have time for this. Why didn’t people sort out their junk?
He sat on the sofa, fingered the amulet, closed his eyes and concentrated on the journals. Where are they? Before he got his answer a chill settled over him and the hair on the back of his neck snapped upright, taut as steel-wire.
“Piss off.” But the spirit didn’t budge. And no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t get an image. He massaged his neck, looked up at the ceiling and smiled. Upstairs.
Wary, he climbed the stairs. His escape route was cut off if the girls came home without warning but he had his amulet, which glowed hot when danger approached.
He went into Sorcha’s bedroom and glanced around. It was a big room, sparsely furnished. He checked the walls, but there were no hidden spaces. Down on his hands and knees he looked under the bed. Aside from one empty suitcase and dust bunnies, there was nothing. He went over to the dresser and pulled open the drawers, one at a time. Searching carefully through her clothes, he got aroused by the soft touch of her underwear. A pair of black satin knickers hooked the ring on his finger. He dangled them in the air, threw them back in the drawer and shoved it closed. The journals weren’t here.
Sorcha’s jewelry box sat on top of the dresser. Inside, silver glistened like moonlight. He ran his hands across the cheap trinkets and lifted a black velvet bag. It was heavy.
Familiar vibrations tingled in his fingertips as he opened it and dropped a pebble-size piece of turquoise into his palm. A protective amulet. Bloody hell! Anger sealed his throat shut.
The sound of a key turning in the front door made him drop the stone in panic. Why hadn’t he felt a warning? Because he was distracted and upset.
He grabbed the stone off the floor, crept to Sorcha’s bedroom door, sliding his feet over centuries-old floorboards. Gently he pushed the door until it was almost shut. He touched the knife at his waist. Heard female giggles. The sounds of bags being dropped and deep, guttural breaths. He closed his eyes and concentrated, saw Carolyn kissing a man. Snogging him so hard she must be sucking on his tonsils. Slut.
They barely made it up the stairs. The guy’s hands were down her jeans, and she was trying to free his dick, giggling and moaning the whole time. They stopped outside on the landing, a mere foot from where he stood on the other side of the door. His hand tightened on his knife and he held his breath.
“Right here. I’m going to do you right here.”
“Oh God, yes.” Carolyn got the guy’s jeans undone and sank to her knees, eyes sparkling as her lips parted.
Oh, fucking magic .
He shifted so he could see more through the crack in the door, only the guy had his hands in her hair, blocking the view as sweet little Carolyn Jamieson went down on him.
Hate seared his veins. Thrown off balance by what he was watching and the way it turned him on, he needed to get out before he used the knife on that prick and wrecked everything. He couldn’t afford to take that sort of risk. He had plans.
So how did he stop Carolyn from sucking off the guy right in front of him?
Smiling, he sent a foul essence
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