Free Blood of the Wicked by Karina Cooper

wouldn’t ever understand.
    Cordelia was dead. Her problems no longer mattered to her, or to him.
    And death had never been Caleb Leigh’s particular problem.

Chapter Six
    T he coven was on the offensive.
    Silas waited with barely leashed impatience as the elevator creaked its slow, rickety way to the fourth floor. His wrist no longer ached, but the memory of its backlash burn lingered as he rubbed the ink.
    Magic. The protective seal of St. Andrew had done its job, warned him and blocked the power, but he didn’t know what the witches had hoped to do. Attack him? Watch him? Lay a curse of some kind?
    Fuck. The choices were endless.
    The elevator pinged feebly. He hurried to the safe house door, mind working. They’d targeted him. Why? As far as anyone else knew, he was the new guy in town. The faceless missionary brought in specifically because the coven supposedly knew every other face.
    How had they known about him? Was there a leak in the Mission?
    And why the fuck hadn’t he told anyone else?
    Except that one was easy. He hadn’t raised the alarm when the magical warning had lanced up his arm because David Peterson had pissed him the hell off.
    They all had, but a special reserve of piss and vinegar simmered for him. A hell of a lot had changed in fourteen years. The director these days had a control problem.
    So did Silas. He didn’t like being controlled.
    He jammed his thumb against the sensor.
    Now he had to use Jessie to get to Caleb Leigh. Use her to get close to the kid, and without telling her that no matter what, he was as good as dead.
    And . . . go.
    The door banged open, slammed into the wall under one angry push.
    Filtered sunlight painted the room in shades of reflected blue. It shimmered through the glass, unfettered by the curtains and giving the room a cozy, almost homey feel. He half expected to smell bread baking, or dinner cooking, or whatever it was real people with real families were supposed to do.
    Silas’s fingers clenched on the manila envelope. “Jessie!” he barked.
    No response.
    She couldn’t still be sleeping, not at noon. While he’d intended to be back sooner, the Mission briefing had taken much longer, which meant his clever little captive had been allowed way too much time alone. If a two-story jump didn’t faze her, he doubted a few knots would.
    Tying her to the heater had seemed a great idea at the time. When Silas had crept in later and found her asleep and shivering, he’d tucked a blanket around her and tried not to think about the trim curves beneath her damp clothes. Or the smudges of exhaustion that deepened the shadows beneath her eyes.
    Letting her sleep this morning had seemed kind. And a salve to his already frayed patience. Now, it seemed stupid.
    Grimly Silas shut the door behind him and threw the envelope onto the tiny kitchen’s single counter. Damn it, he didn’t have time for this shit.
    He stalked to the bedroom door, shoved it open. Swore when all he saw were folded sheets and the end of a broken belt. “Motherfu—”
    “Hi, honey,” she drawled from behind him. “How was work?”
    Her voice burned every nerve he had. Anger throbbed a heartbeat behind as he whirled. “How the hell did you get free?”
    Her eyes gleamed. “That bad?”
    “How did you work through my knots?”
    Her lips twitched, but her tawny eyes faded to a wary edge. And annoyed. Or maybe still annoyed, given her hard bed last night.
    Yeah, he’d been a bastard. Now he was going to top it.
    She turned, claimed a seat on the shabby couch and crossed one ankle over her knee. “Your belt melted,” she said, and propped her head up in classic fuck-off pose. “Your knots were fine, thank you so much.”
    His fingers twitched. Hell, his dick twitched, and that just pissed him off more. Go, go, go .
    Silas swiped the folder off the counter and stalked the three steps to the sofa. Threw it into her lap. She caught the spinning projectile.
    “Cheerful, aren’t you?” she