Chapter Two

The blinding beam of a single headlight swept the alley. Palmer and Melodie both put their hands up to shield their eyes, which did little to increase visibility. The strong scent of diesel accompanied the belly-rumbling thunder of a six-cylinder on low idle.

Fortunately, the rider cut the light, leaving Mel blinking at the phantom color dots that swirled in front of her eyes. When her stunned retinas recovered, she focused on the movement of leather-clad arms reaching up to remove a gleaming black helmet.

Next to her, Palmer drew his sword and shoved one broad shoulder forward in a move that said, “Get behind me, wench.” Annoying as it was, though, the attitude suited him.

A masculine wave of dark hair tumbled from the helmet, and Hell’s angel revealed a face that could stop traffic. A day’s growth of sexy stubble shadowed a granite jaw. Sculpted lips curved in a humorless grin, and deep-set hawk eyes zeroed in on the puddle of Gogmar evaporating around their feet.

“Oh, crap, it’s DeWitt,” Palmer muttered near Melodie’s ear. She might have commented, but she was currently bewitched by a stare that made her palms slippery on the broom handle and her heart beat triple time.

Here was a man who sizzled.

She’d never been the type to be rendered speechless or weak-kneed by a show of testosterone, but Sugar Honey Iced Tea, this man was fine. Correction: This leather-wearing, Harley-riding, ally-skulking thug was fine.

He tucked his midnight black helmet under one arm and cocked a perfectly arched brow at Melodie’s sword-wielding savior. “You killed the Gogmar, didn’t you?” His words held an exotic lilt, just the hint of a Scottish brogue.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was making out with my girlfriend. We didn’t see anything. Right, sweetheart?”

Palmer wrapped an arm around Mel’s shoulders, and the weight of his embrace nearly knocked an inch off her height. “Huh? Oh…right.”

She assumed she was protecting them both by agreeing with him. Nevertheless she wasn’t fully comfortable with Tall, Dark and Dangerous thinking Palmer was her boyfriend, or—and more importantly—that she was the kind of girl who would make out in an alley.

“You do realize you’re standing in Gogmar guts,” the mysterious DeWitt said.

“Umm…” The smell in the alley had grown into something no skunk could hope to emulate, and Melodie’s desire to flee before she started to melt had become unmanageable. She decided to rat Palmer out and ducked from under his arm. “He did it.”

The back door of Gleason’s was two steps away, and she could have had it slammed, locked and dead bolted in a heartbeat if only she could have torn her gaze away from DeWitt’s piercing stare.

“So what if I did?” Palmer stepped up, sword ready, while Mel inched back.

Leather God shrugged. “That’s fine with me. All I want is the cabochon it carried, and I’ll be on my way.”

“It had no cabochon,” Palmer replied.

Skepticism lit those fathomless eyes, and DeWitt smirked. Mel conveniently forgot her desire to flee when he lifted a massive thigh and swung himself off the seat of his Harley.

Leather boots, stone-washed jeans, black T-shirt, and a scuffed bomber jacket completed his bad-boy ensemble. As he stretched to his full height, her gaze dropped to his silver belt buckle, which looked big enough to hold tea service for four. She wondered guiltily if he were compensating for a small…id. Nah. A guy like this had the goods to back up that swagger. No doubt about it.

“I’ve been following it since sundown. I know it had the Cabochon, and I want it. Now.” His demand held no room for argument, and the commanding tone of his rich, slightly accented voice made Mel want to give him whatever he asked for.

While Palmer postured, though, she slid another inch toward the door.

“You’re welcome to search the remains, but trust me, there’s no cabochon here.”

“I can feel it. It’s here.” DeWitt advanced, Palmer brandished his weapon and Mel bolted again, figuring she’d just be in the way when they came to blows.

Rather than go for the armed opponent, though, DeWitt lunged for Melodie. Palmer ran interference, for which she was grateful, and she ducked inside the shop, cringing as a scuffle erupted behind her.

Once inside, she turned to shove the door shut behind her, but a booted foot wedged in the sliver of space between the door and the jamb, preventing her from closing it completely.

She screamed and thought about stomping on the intrusive instep, but her rubber-soled Keds wouldn’t do much damage, so she ran. The door banged open, and the clatter and clang of armed combat followed her through the kitchen.

“She’s got the Cabochon, I can sense it. Get out of my way and you won’t get hurt, Van Houten.” Blake concentrated on keeping the door to the bakery wedged open while behind him, the demon hunter took aim with his still somewhat bloody weapon.

The tip of the sword jabbed Blake in the ribs, and he momentarily forgot his preference not to harm humans in his quest. He whirled around, forgetting his prey, and wrapped his hand around Van Houten’s sticky blade. Ignoring the bite of steel into his palm, he yanked the weapon out of the demon hunter’s hands. It wasn’t a move any man could get away with, but Blake didn’t have to worry about scars, and physical pain had little meaning for him when his entire life was hell.

Disarmed now, Van Houten reared back. His fancy boots found no traction in the spreading puddle of rapidly disintegrating Gogmar entrails, and he went down on his denim-clad backside with an embarrassing yelp. With a disdainful glare at his nemesis, Blake flipped Van Houten’s sword in the air, caught it by the hilt, and turned his attention back to the lissome brunette who, by the sound of crashing cookware, hadn’t gotten very far through the bakery.

She possessed the Cabochon. Why and how were questions he could ruminate on later, when he was free. For now he had to get it from her before she had the chance to pass it on to a demon queen. He flung himself after her.

She slipped away from him, swift as the wind, and dashed through the bakery’s stainless-steel kitchen on deft feet, her chestnut ponytail swinging.

Blake lunged, grabbing for the silky rope of hair, but missed. She skidded on her rubber-soled shoes and swung herself through the narrow door that separated the kitchen from the front of the shop.

He could have slung Van Houten’s confiscated sword at her legs and tripped her easily enough, but she reminded him too much of a frightened doe, both skittish and curious, graceful and untried.

Even in his darkest hours since inheriting the Witch Hunter’s curse, he’d remained loath to hurt anyone unnecessarily. He didn’t want to consider what he might do if the day came when he had no choice.

The Cabochon had been entrusted to demon rather than human caretakers for that very reason, so the men of his cursed bloodline would never find themselves in the position to kill or harm a human being to end their exile.

Blake launched himself after his target again, but just as he rounded the counter that bisected the kitchen, Palmer crashed into his back. Incensed, he whirled around and grabbed his nemesis by the shirt. He might not have the stomach to hurt the girl, but at this moment, he had no qualms about causing Van Houten a little pain and humiliation. If the two were friends, maybe he could play on her sympathies if he threatened to hurt the demon hunter.

“Run! Get out of here while you can.” Palmer’s strangled command stopped Melodie halfway around the front display counter. She skidded to a halt and glanced back over her shoulder. DeWitt had Palmer by the stretchy collar of his T-shirt and was lifting his linebacker body about a foot off the floor.

Ignoring Palmer’s gasping and his ineffectual kicks, DeWitt turned his predatory gaze on Mel. “I only want the jewel. Don’t make me hurt him to prove how desperate I am.”

And there went her escape plan. In a strange way, Palmer had saved her life, and weird as he was, she couldn’t let him suffer on her account. “Jewel? You’re looking for a jewel?” Why hadn’t he just said so in the first place?

“The Cabochon is a cursed jewel. It will bring you nothing but tragedy. Hand it over to me, and you’ll escape its curse.”

“Ah, okay. I think I know what you’re talking about. The Gogmar gave me something in the alley, right before he…died.”

Tortured eyes searched hers, and she had the distinct impression he could see into her soul. The oddly naked feeling made her shiver.

“It gave you the Cabochon?”

“It gave me a sapphire. Now, put Palmer down gently, and I’ll give it to you if you promise to leave us alone, okay?”

She made a “down boy” gesture with both hands.

“If you give me the Cabochon, I promise, you’ll never see me again.”

That seemed reasonable to Mel, but apparently not to Palmer, who still dangled in midair.

“Don’t do it, Melodie. He’s pure evil. He’ll kill us both if we give him what he wants.”

“Oh, please.” DeWitt dropped Palmer then, totally ignoring the “gently” part of Mel’s request. “Get over yourself, demon hunter. There’s nothing pure about me.”

Clutching his chest, from which DeWitt had likely ripped a handful of hair, Palmer slithered away along the floor. With a lot more bravado than she felt, Mel inched back into the kitchen and put herself between DeWitt and Marty, who still sat grinning like a fool on the very edge of the center workstation.

“Okay. Nice and easy,” she said, holding up her hands like this was an old-fashioned stickup. Since it appeared the only weapon DeWitt possessed was Palmer’s sword, she probably could have made a break for it, but she really was more than willing to part with whatever it was Creature Boy had given her.

“It’s in my pocket.” She reached slowly for the gem that the Gogmar had pressed into her hand. DeWitt’s tawny gaze followed her movements, skeptical but anxious.

Judging by his expression, Mel held all the power. He wanted the cursed jewel just as badly as she wanted to get rid of it. When her cold fingers scraped the crumb-dusted bottom seam of her apron pocket, her heart shriveled a little. With a reassuring smile for DeWitt, she felt to the left, then to the right. Nothing.

She held open her pocket and glanced inside. There was nothing there but a few shards of antler and a little ball of bright green lint. “Um…”

DeWitt’s accusatory glare made her spine tingle. “You lied to me, lass.” The timbre of his voice brought to mind the windswept hillsides of Scotland and the icy depths of a cold hell. He was not amused.

“I did have it. I swear. It must have fallen out of my pocket in the alley. It’s probably still out there under the…ooze.”

DeWitt wasn’t buying it. His ire wilted her. Under his alluring golden gaze, she felt guilty.

“I swear, I don’t have it.”

“Yes, you do.” The accusation hung in the sweet-scented air of the kitchen for a second; then DeWitt lunged for her.

Melodie ducked out from under his two-handed grasp, leaving Marty to take the fall for her, and fall was exactly what he did.

Two handfuls of chocolate-fondant-coated coconut sponge cake went flying.

Mel dove, and just as she hit the floor, Palmer jumped up. He grabbed the naked stainless-steel handle of the double boiler and flung caramelized sugar and boiling water at DeWitt.

The pots clattered to the floor, colliding with what was left of Marty. Melodie yelped. DeWitt roared and clutched the hot goo now plastering his T-shirt to his chest. Before she could decide who needed her help more, Palmer grabbed her hand and dragged her out the front door of the shop.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you did that.” Mel struggled to keep her arm attached to her shoulder as Palmer pulled her along the darkened street toward a bright blue Jeep Wrangler parked on the corner.

“He would have killed you. I appreciate you buying time, but it’s a bad idea to lie to Blake DeWitt.”

“Well, if he was evil before, he’s going to be a little more evil now with third-degree sugar burns all over his front. And I wasn’t lying. The Gogmar did give me a jewel, a big one, right before you skewered him.”

Palmer yanked open the passenger door of the Jeep and literally shoved Mel inside. She had a split second to recall all her mother’s warnings about never getting into a car with a stranger before she settled in and pulled the seat belt across her chest. Palmer threw his empty scabbard in the backseat and slid behind the wheel with a backward glance at Gleason’s front door.

A second later, the engine roared, and the vehicle lurched into the empty street. “So you’ve still got the Cabochon?” he asked.

Mel grabbed the dashboard as the Jeep careened around a corner and took the straightaway of Garden Street at a cool sixty miles per hour. “No. Like I said, I must have dropped it in the alley. DeWitt will probably find it, and then we won’t have to worry about him, right? Who the hell is he anyway, and why are you so scared of him?”

Her dubious savior gave her a sour glance. “I’m not scared of him, though anyone who knows of him probably should be. He’s cursed. Seriously cursed. And rumor has it he can transfer his curse to someone else through the Cabochon. Oh shit, he’s following us.”

The rumble of DeWitt’s Harley tickled the hairs on the back of Mel’s neck, and she turned in the seat to look out the Jeep’s back window. A single headlight glared back at her. “How fast can this thing go?”

Palmer grinned wickedly and stomped on the gas pedal. “Just watch—and hang on!”