Try As I Smite (Brimstone Inc #4) - Abigail Owen Page 0,4

to stare at her.

Delilah sighed. “Alasdair. I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me why you’ve come—”

“I have a demon problem.” He practically bit off each word.

Every ounce of levity left her body in a whoosh. She tried not to show by even a whisper of a twitch how that statement hit her. No, no, no. Not demons.

“What kind of demon problem?” she asked slowly, proud that her voice didn’t give away the sudden tightening in her chest, as though a yeti’s pet elephant sat on top of her, cutting off her air.

“Multiple reports, twenty in the last week, of rage and unleashed magic resulting in injuries,” he said. “No deaths so far, but it’s only a matter of time.”

Interesting. “How do you know for sure what you’re dealing with?” Please don’t be demons. Anything but those. “It could be any number of—”

“My assistant, Agnes, has been possessed. Definitely demon. I’ve…had a run-in with a demon before.”

Well…fuck.

Alasdair slid into the chair opposite her. Even projecting his usual imperturbable disposition, tension was coming off him in tangible waves. She was surprised the man wasn’t vibrating with it or manifesting magic to bleed it off. Not that she’d blame him.

Demons. It would have to be those, wouldn’t it?

Delilah resisted the urge to uncross and recross her legs under the intentness of his gaze. “I’m sorry, but I don’t deal with demons. Hard rule.”

His thick brows snapped down over his eyes in an impressive scowl. “You don’t deal—” He bit off the words. “What you mean is you don’t help witches.”

She pressed her lips together over defensive words that wanted to tumble out, limiting herself to a narrowing of her eyes. Ever off-balance around him in the most frustrating ways. Anyone else, and she wouldn’t give two figs for ruffling feathers. She’d never experienced any desire to explain her actions or defend herself before. Why now? And why to him? “You know that’s not true, or I wouldn’t have helped Rowan Masters.”

The red-haired witch, now married to Greyson Masters, Alasdair’s lead witch-hunter enforcing the Syndicate’s laws. Rowan was as powerful as they came. Excepting, perhaps, the man sitting in front of her right now. However, that previous situation had had nothing to do with demons. Or…not directly at least.

Alasdair’s lip curled. Hell, even the man’s sneer was controlled. But then he gave his head a shake, and a glimpse of vulnerability took her righteous anger away in an instant. “You’re right…”

Not exactly an apology, but more than he’d given her in the past.

He shot to his feet. “So why won’t you take me…us…on as a client?”

Interesting slip, and the gods knew she wished she could help them. Maybe a little spell wouldn’t hurt. One to locate—

The second even a whisper of a thought of getting involved surfaced, a tightening sensation, as though metal cuffs around her wrists were clamping down hard, told her she was treading on dangerous ground. If she took it further, her skin would start to visibly chafe and then blister. Good thing her long-sleeved blouse of green chiffon covered the spots.

The same magic that shackled her wouldn’t allow her to speak of it, either, so she couldn’t even explain.

“I just…” She allowed herself the small act of blowing out a long breath. “I can’t.”

“Fuck.” The quietly spat word, even as he held perfectly still saying it, sent a flinch through her.

His desperation was tangible, thick in the air. She regretted teasing him earlier now, because demons were as serious as it got.

“I may know someone else who can help.” Though…because that person could help, didn’t mean she would. The tightness cinched harder around Delilah’s wrists, and she had to school her features not to show the pain, nearly glancing down to see if the skin around her wrists was turning red yet.

“Someone who can help?” He repeated her words in a tone that said he still couldn’t believe she was turning him down.

Sorry, she mentally apologized. Anything else, and I would have stepped in.

Delilah offered him a shrug, for once not meaning to antagonize him, though the way his brows snapped together, she had. She rose to her feet to cross the room. Bringing up her computer, she pretended to hunt for information she already had memorized. Then wrote down an address on a slip of paper.

She straightened to find he’d moved on silent feet to stand across the desk from her. Resisting the need to take a step back, away from all that enticing, leashed energy, she