I sighed. “What will it take to impress you?”
Jace glanced across the dance floor. “There,” he said, indicating the witch sitting on a sofa set atop a raised platform, looking down over everyone and everything like he was the king. “Enchant him. Convince him to sing ‘In the Moonlight’, and then I’ll be impressed.”
“That’s a shifter song,” I told him.
‘In the Moonlight’ was the shifters’ anthem, their theme song. It’s what they sang before getting furry and howling at the moon. Convincing a witch to sing it was about as easy as convincing a vampire to go on a no-blood diet. Nowadays, the shifters and witches of New York were getting along about as well as pickles and chocolate.
“Well, if you’re afraid of failing…” Jace allowed his voice to trail off.
“I’m afraid of nothing, least of all a witch wearing a purple wig and a gold suit.”
I poured myself another shot and drank it down. The witch king had bodyguards, two big witches who looked like they’d fallen off the pages of a bodybuilding magazine. I threw back another shot.
“If you’re not scared, then why do you need so many drinks?” Jace asked me.
“Just boosting up my magic.”
Which was kind of the truth. Witchy drinks had a hint of magic in them. Certainly nothing akin to Nectar, but you could only get Nectar drops in Legion bars. It was, after all, poison, so the fatality rate was pretty shocking. And killing your customers simply wasn’t good for business.
“He’s a leader,” I said, glancing at the witch king tucked safely behind his wall of bodyguards. “Leaders are harder to compel. The qualities that make others want to follow them also make them resistant to mental attacks.”
“That’s why it’s called a challenge,” replied Jace. “Don’t you want to push yourself?”
I did. Like everyone else, I had my reasons for joining the Legion. Some just wanted a place to fit in, others were hungry for power—or desperate for the magic that the gods’ gifts bestowed. That was me. Desperate. After my brother Zane went missing without a trace six months ago, I’d gone to the Legion with the intention of blasting through the ranks to gain the magic I needed to find him. The catch? The magic that would allow me to link to him, something called Psychic’s Spell, was a ninth level Legion ability. I had a long way to go, assuming I even survived. This training was what I needed. I had to push myself.
The Legion was doing a good job of pushing me too. Thanks to the First Angel, I was on the fast track, an accelerated path of intensely brutal training. And I wasn’t the only one.
“Ivy told me there are dozens of us across all Legion offices in this fast track program,” I said.
“How does she know that?”
I shrugged. “She talks to people. And you know Ivy. People tell her everything.”
“Maybe she could convince the witch king to sing ‘In the Moonlight’.”
“I’ll do it. Just give me a moment.” I traced my finger across the lip of my empty shot glass.
Jace’s brows lifted. “Need another?”
“I think I can manage without,” I said, tapping my fingertips atop the counter. “So many of us being pushed to grow our magic faster. The Legion must be preparing for something.”
“You ask too many questions. That’s what gets you into trouble.”
“Has your father told you anything?”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he replied, frowning. “Trouble.”
I smirked at him.
Jace sighed. “No, he hasn’t told me anything. Colonel Fireswift is not big on sharing.”
“Just like an angel,” I commented, rolling back my shoulders as I stood. “Ok, I think I’ve procrastinated long enough.”
I cut around the dance floor, keeping some distance between me and the hot scent of sweaty armpits and raging hormones. Sometimes possessing the heightened senses of a vampire was more of a burden than a boon. I strutted straight for the witch king’s stage, my eyes raised with confidence, my heels clicking hard against the floor. Attitude was everything, a little tip I’d learned in my bounty hunter years.
I’d made it to the wall of hired muscle. The witch king waved his bodyguards aside. Obviously, he was impressed by my attitude. Either that or my red minidress.
“Come here,” he purred richly, patting the empty seat to his right. The spot to his left was already occupied by a raven-haired witch covered in a tiny piece of lacy black lingerie masquerading as a dress.
“I think I’ll stand. I have the perfect view of your lovely companion’s panties from here.”
Silence filled the space between the witch king and me. The seconds dripped by. Then, suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed.
“Fantastic.” He pulled out an embroidered handkerchief and wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes, careful not to smear his eyeliner. “You are perfect. Too perfect. Did Constantine send you?”
“Constantine Wildman?” I asked. He was the only witch named Constantine I’d ever met.
“Yes. He’s always sending his minions to try to recruit me into his coven. After the last one, I told him that his next messenger had better be a pretty girl, or I wasn’t listening.”
“I’m not one of his minions.”
He braided his fingers together. “Then to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“You sound like a man with a spectacular singing voice.”
His smile grew wider. “Go on, you silver-tongued siren.”
“I was hoping you’d honor us all with a song tonight.” I reached for the threads of his mind. “Something emotional. Something deep.”
“What did you have in mind?”
This was the moment of truth. How much of the siren’s magic was already in me? “In the Moonlight.”
His smile soured. Anger flashing in his eyes, he jumped up. Chants—or were they curses?—spilled out of his mouth. He snatched a vial from his belt and threw it at my feet. An invisible weight pressed down on my shoulders. I felt like I was caught inside an airtight bottle, slowly suffocating on my own breath. Something hard slammed into me, and the witch’s spell hurled me off the platform. My back hit the dance floor with a dry crack. I rolled over, gasping for breath, pushing myself up on my shaking arms.
One of the big bodyguards was waiting for me. His fist slammed down like a hammer. I slid out of the way—barely—and his hand broke through the floorboards. He shook off the splintered wood fragments and tried again. I rolled away, bouncing back to my feet. The bodyguard grabbed the closest table and pulled up so hard that the screws bolting the legs to the floor popped out. Then the friendly fellow hurled it at me.
I ducked. “That’s not nice,” I told him.