Free Mark of the Witch by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page B

against
him.
    Tomas had rolled his eyes at the notion. He’d never thought he
had any real weaknesses. Oh, he didn’t believe himself perfect by a long shot,
but he didn’t think he had any particularly lethal vulnerabilities.
    Now, though, even that belief was
being challenged. Because he was attracted to this woman. Sexually attracted.
And while he was still a man, a fully functioning one, he hadn’t experienced
this level of temptation since—well…ever. It was growing stronger with every
second he spent in her company, and they were going to be together—alone
together—for the next week or so.
    Was it a spell? Was she, as Father Dom had warned, perfectly
aware of her bond with the demon, ready and willing to help him, and using her
wiles to enchant and bewitch the priest sent to stop her?
    Or was she as innocent as she seemed?
    He didn’t suppose it mattered, honestly. He had to resist her,
had to stop her, and how much she knew or didn’t know was irrelevant. Moreover,
he had to convince her that her mission, her calling and her key to salvation
from the torments afflicting her, were all one and the same: to help him stop
the demon from crossing the Portal. When in truth, he was pretty sure her true
mission was just the opposite.
    The three witches were foretold to be the demon’s consorts.
They were supposed to help him escape the Portal. But they were also the only
ones with the power to stop him.
    He supposed he would have to tell her that part of it at some
point.
    “I’m going to have an omelet,” she said as they got out of the
car. “A big fat three-egg omelet with a half pound of cheese and ham and
mushrooms and—no, wait.” She held up a hand, apparently deep in thought. As if
the choice was one of the most important of her life. Then she snapped her
fingers. “Belgian waffles, with butter melting down the sides and all that
whipped cream piled on top, and fruit, and maybe sausage on the side.”
    She was walking as she was talking, absently rubbing her upper
arm. He wondered about that as he held the door open for her and she stepped
inside, inhaled, then closed her eyes as if smelling the sweetest perfume.
“Coffee,” she muttered. “Hail the Goddess Caffeinna.”
    “That’s sort of blasphemous, you know.” He was only teasing. He
was starting to enjoy her use of sarcasm-laced humor to deflect the things she
called scary, even beginning to return it in kind.
    “Oh, please, not to the Holy of Holies, Divine Creatrix of the
sacred coffee bean.” Her attention switched, quick as a heartbeat, to the
hostess who’d just appeared to greet them. “Two for breakfast, and a vat of
high-test, please. Death to decaf!”
    The hostess smiled at her enthusiasm and led the way to a
booth.
    Indira rubbed her arm again, only this time she pulled her hand
away quickly, as if the arm was sore to the touch. Frowning, Tomas looked at
her. “Everything okay?”
    “Yeah. Fine.” She dropped her hands to her sides.
    He wished he could see her arm better, but she’d donned a brown
leather jacket with a fake fur collar that looked as if it ought to have a
matching helmet and goggles to go with it. Beneath that, she wore a T-shirt that
came just to the low-slung top of her skin-tight jeans, so he caught glimpses of
bare midriff every time she moved. The jeans were tucked inside a pair of
cowgirl-style boots, brown, with stitching and embossing in swirls, loops and
flowers, and impossibly high heels.
    She looked as if she’d stepped off the cover of some urban
style guide. Her T-shirt read Born Again Pagan, and had a triple moon logo that
glittered when the light hit it at the right angle. She wore a pentacle, a
different one, suspended from a thin silver chain, its star formed in the shape
of a gleaming spider’s web, with the spider in the center. Its body was a
moonstone, its eyes tiny bits of ruby, its legs made of black tourmaline. She
had earrings that matched, each with a tiny pentacle web at the