Familiar Magic

  Familiar Magic

  By

  AJ Hampton

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Familiar Magic

  Copyright© 2010 AJ Hampton

  ISBN: 978-1-60088-588-4

  Cover Artist: Rebecca Sterling

  Editor: Stephanie Parent

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Cobblestone Press, LLC

  www.cobblestone-press.com

  Chapter One

  “Fuck me,” Trenton Gregory yelped.

  For the third time that night, he had misjudged the clearance under the table and the length of his legs. Rocking back and forth, beer sloshed from his mug before making a beeline toward his crotch. Dulled, but not completely gone, his reflexes kicked in, and he shot back. The drops intended for his jeans fell to the ground. The dripping noise sounded like BBs bouncing off a tin roof.

  With a shake of his head, he rubbed his sore knee and drew in a deep breath. The bittersweet smell of cigarettes made his nose twitch. Lingering like a fog threading through the early morning forest, the smoke created a haze from the ground up. His eyes watered at the scent. Blinking, he peered up at the rickety ceiling and tried to remember why he’d given up the habit ten years ago. A fan swooshed overhead and blew the cotton cobwebs in the corners of the room. Ghouls made from tissue hung from strings and swayed in a circle. If only the real things were as timid.

  Halloween was in two days. It brought back the memory he’d been searching for. It was his fiancée who had made him quit. That had been just a few days before she’d run off with his best friend, leaving him standing at the altar like an idiot. Closing his eyes, he chugged the rest of his thick, warm beer. The empty glass slammed back to the table and darkened his faded blue tee with splatter. He needed something stronger.

  Even though the sun had set hours ago, the heat of the day was just now starting to submit to the darkness. It was unseasonably hot for October. Even the fan above didn’t stop the trickle of sweat that trailed along his spine. The trapped air inside the tavern was humid and stale—almost like a coffin. He wished someone would open the damned door.

  It seemed like every shifter in town was celebrating the soon-to-be holiday at the Watering Hole. His ears ached from the drunken hum of conversation. With each empty glass returned to the various tables, the overall volume rose. The jukebox spun to life, cranking out a drift of country rock that just made everything more jumbled. Being a shape shifter was good for a lot of things, but crowded, enclosed spaces wasn’t one of them.

  Trying to adopt an indifferent pose, he lounged back in his seat and tuned out the sounds around him. One elbow lay on the back of his chair while the other rested on the table, fingering the handle of his empty mug. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, this time to the side. He looked around the bar, taking in everything and nothing all at once.

  From the corner of his eye, he sized up a raucous group of bikers at the adjacent table. Trouble. They were dressed in studded leather, their jackets sporting wolf insignias silhouetted in a full moon. They weren’t in costume. The crackling energy of their beasts stirred his jaguar to life. Hackles rising, he listened in disgust while they bragged about their latest conquest. Laughter rang out, followed by a chorus of cheers and a toast that doused the table.

  Despite the faded sign over the door that read “No Shifting on the Premises,” he was ready to say fuck it. Even though the full moon was two nights away, he wouldn’t have a problem changing forms. It took someone with a lot of power to shift outside of the full moon. The strength inside him surged, and he flexed his fingers in an attempt to control himself. The more they boasted, the more annoyed he became. Did it really matter which one of them fucked the Tallahassee pack master’s daughter? This was Missouri, and they were all assholes. Though he’d be outnumbered six to one, the fight he felt spoiling would almost have been worth it. Almost.

  Pushing the feline back inside hurt more than he would have liked to admit. His eyes burned from the combination of smoke, lack of sleep, and one too many beers. He tried to blink the pain away. It didn’t help. Sweet, feminine laughter penetrated over the noise of the bar and moved straight through him. Like someone twisted his intestines, his stomach tightened in a knot. His gaze sought the bar toward the back of the room.

  Jeremiah, his brother, had his elbows resting on the bar and his back slouched so his shoulders stuck up in the air. Even when he was sitting, his baby brother towered over everyone else. Jeremiah had inherited from their mother thin, long legs and golden-brown hair that mopped across his forehead. It matched the shade of his eyes almost perfectly.

  Him? He’d gotten an unruly flock of dark chestnut curls. It wasn’t his hair or height that made him and his brother so different. It was the traits his father passed to him: blue eyes, a stubborn streak two miles wide, and a territory of bloodthirsty animals to keep in line. It was a crappy job, but someone had to do it.

  His brother flashed an innocent, boyish grin at Samantha Monroe, the barmaid, and his dimples sank in deeper. He said something—God only knew what—that caused her to still the rag in her hand on the cup she was drying. Her sultry brown eyes lit up, and the corners of her lips curved upward. An ache moved through Trent’s chest. His palm sweated against the table. When Sam smiled like she was right now, it did wicked-fierce things to his libido.

  The smell of smoke saturated the air, and a flickering orange light flashed in his peripheral view. Through the haze that separated him from the bar, he watched Sam bite her lip to stifle her laughter. God, he loved it when she laughed. Apparently, so did his brother. Jeremiah drew his elbows across the counter and leaned close to whisper something into Sam’s ear. His long fingers pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Bastard. His lips moved, but it was too loud, even with enhanced hearing, to know what he whispered.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. A crease appeared along her forehead, and she shook her head. The hand that had been bringing the simple gold chain back and forth across her neck stopped. A solitaire diamond bounced against her chest. She pressed a single finger against Jeremiah’s shoulder and pushed him back into his chair. Trent admired her curvy figure, her hands on either side of her hips.

  Through the myriad of sounds of the room, she started tapping her foot against the floor. He heard that loud and clear. A sharp crack of magic whipped through the room with her irritation, yet no one stopped to look. Some days he thought he was the only one who could feel what made her so damn special.

  “You tell him, Miah,” she growled, “and I swear to God I’ll find some way to kill you myself. I don’t care what you shift into.”

  In tandem, Sam and Jeremiah turned to meet his eyes. What in the hell were they up to now? The thought, good or bad, made his jaw tight. Eyes still focused on the pair, he brought his mug up to his lips. Frowning, he looked into the thin ring of foam lining the bottom of the cup before slamming it to the table. Damn, he needed a refill.

  Halfheartedly, he peered through the throngs of tables in search of Brenda. Tall, with bright red hair and gigantic tits, the waitress normally wasn’t too hard to find. When he didn’t spot her, he glanced back to the bar. Watching Jeremiah flirt was painful; when he did it with Sam, it was torture. The bastard knew Trent had a thing for her. His brother also knew he had no intention of doing anything about it. Being Area Enforcer wasn’t just a crappy job, it was a death sente
nce.

  Cupping the edge of the bar, Sam leaned into it with her shoulders and pushed her back out in a languid stretch. Light danced off the delicate tanned curve of her shoulder and the graceful line of her neck. The diamond swung forward and caught the light. She meant nothing provocative by it, but his swelling cock disagreed. She looked up, met his eyes. The heat of her gaze sent another trickle of sweat down the line of his spine.

  Soft, caressing, he felt the magic deeply rooted in her veins moving along his cheek. It felt like her fingers were rasping through the stubble covering his jaw. It was cool, seductive, and just a little bit frightening. From the day he’d met her six torturous months ago, he’d known they were meant to be together.

  Her eyes softened, crinkling ever so slightly at the corners when they met his. On anyone else, that look would have said, “It’s nice to see you.” On her, it translated to, “Where the hell have you been?”

  Sam wasn’t supposed to be at the bar tonight. Tuesdays and Wednesdays were her days off. It was the only reason he’d let his brother drag him away from their house cluttered with empty takeout boxes and beer bottles. By the grace of God, he’d managed twenty-three days without seeing her, hearing her voice echoing in his head, feeling her magic gyrate against him.

  It was just too hard to sit in a bar, watching the woman he was in lust with flirt with every asshole who took a seat in her domain. As fast as his metabolism was, the buzz he worked so hard at drowning himself in faded too fast for him to pretend lust was the only thing he felt for her.

  The crackling, soul-splitting energy the other shifters gave off didn’t fade as easily. Drunk or sober, the energy buzzed around his head like a hive of bees. This close to the full moon his cat paced restlessly inside him, desperate to show its dominance, anxious to break free from the cage he kept it locked in.

  Through the haze of alcohol and shifters he felt the press of Sam’s magic. He didn’t think she realized she was doing it. If he ever let himself get close enough, he’d ask her. A glass shattered against the ground, drawing him out of his thoughts. The bar was definitely more crowded than usual. It wasn’t often the full moon corresponded with Halloween. Passed down through her family, Sam’s bar was what you’d call a neutral zone: a place where different packs and species could intermingle. Humans who weren’t sensitive to the supernatural didn’t understand shifters, nor did they want to. Some shifters got off on the buzz he was feeling; he just wished it would go away. He wished Sam and his sappy-as-hell feelings would go away, too.

  He must have been staring too long, because Sam flashed him a half-tilted grin. His heart melted at the flush that colored her cheeks. It made him wonder if her cheeks got that same rosy hue when she climaxed. Too bad he was never going to get to find out.

  Sam clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and rolled her eyes at him, as if she’d read his mind. Hell, for all he knew, she could. It was a scary thought. There was a lot he didn’t know about the witch. Something was brewing. He felt it. He had never seen her eyes look darker or more inviting. He’d bet his money it had something to do with the holiday. The jaguar prowled to the surface, anxious to be close to her, to feel her magic stroking through his fur. He might have been an alpha male, but his feline had a soft spot for the twenty-something brunette. He was damn near helpless to deny her anything.

  Like the first time he’d met her all those months ago, she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. Unlike Brenda, her half-sister, she didn’t need to. A tight, uncomfortable sensation moved through his stomach. His heart began to race. It was annoying Sam had this effect on him. She’d done something different to her hair. Bangs that didn’t used to be there slanted off to the side, just long enough so they brushed the arch of her eyebrows. The rest of the dark, silky strands were pulled up into a high ponytail that left her throat exposed. How could she have no idea what that did to him?

  Almost her exact opposite in both personality and looks, Brenda sauntered in through the back door, wearing a skintight costume and skirt short enough to flash whoever was looking when she bent over. She was dressed as a pussycat, an ironic choice for a werewolf. The stench of sex that rolled off her was more potent than the booze or the cigarettes. She pressed against the bar and pushed her back out to draw attention to the curve of her ass. Brenda brought a finger to the corner of her swollen ruby lips and delicately dabbed, as if she were wiping something away. A second later, one of the bikers, who belonged to the table of assholes next to him, entered from the same door and walked past her.

  Brenda turned her head to the side, caught his gaze. He winked, grabbed his crotch, and then thanked her. Classy. Well, at least the pack could check off banging the master’s daughter in Missouri. Sam made a rude sound in the back of her throat that made him chuckle. The natural pout to Brenda’s mouth curved into a smirk.

  “I see you’re still giving rim jobs in the back.” Sam grinned and threw a dish rag over her shoulder. “You know I’m not paying you extra for that, right?”

  Trent crossed his arms over his chest and nestled into his chair. No matter how piss-poor a mood he was in, their sisterly banter was always entertaining. If they weren’t best friends, he might worry one of them would push it too far.

  “Please, honey, you wouldn’t know what a rim job was if one bit you on the ass. You’ve got no idea what a real man wants.” Brenda wiggled her chest.

  Sam poured a series of shots and uncorked half a dozen longnecks in a matter of seconds. As soon as they touched the bar, Brenda scooped them up and put them on a tray. They worked well together.

  “Hmm.” Sam paused, pressed a finger against her lips, and leaned her hip against the bar. Back and forth, she started to draw her necklace against her neck. “What’s that saying? No one’s going to buy the milk when they can get the cow for free.”

  Brenda shook her head, and he could see how much effort it was taking her not to smile. Balancing the tray high above her head, she turned and gave Sam a faux glare. The waitress moved through the bar and did everything from dropping off a drink to flashing her breasts as she bent. The only thing she didn’t do was drop off a refill at his table.

  Plan B. Trent held his empty mug in the air, then caught Sam’s gaze and pointed. The slow, devious smirk she gave him made his cock instantly hard. She mouthed, “Get it your damn self, you lazy drunk.”

  When she turned and went for the bottle of whiskey on the top shelf, he tried to suppress the lovesick feelings he was experiencing. Easier said than done. As she extended her arm, her tight white tank top crept upward. Inch by inch, the delicious curve of her hip and the small of her back were revealed. Out from the bottom of her shirt peeked a curved blue line. He’d never realized she had a tattoo there before. Then again, the only place he’d seen her naked was in his dreams.

  When someone mentioned Sam’s name, his ears twitched. He narrowed in on the table next to him. It was obvious he wasn’t the only one enjoying the view. The bikers’ lewd conversation had shifted from Brenda to Sam and how her breasts would fit in their hands. It didn’t matter that Sam wasn’t a shifter, or a master’s daughter, like Brenda. No, witches were a completely different type of trophy. To them, she was something to be fucked, discarded, and then bragged about. They were actually taking bets on how long she’d last if they screwed her in the midst of a change.

  A low, feral growl vibrated his chest. She was his.

  As he rose, his chair scraped away from the table. He let just a fraction of his power leak out into the room, and the noise around him stopped. As enforcer, he had a reputation that wasn’t just handed down to him. No, he’d earned his respect, had the scars to prove it. He had a nagging feeling he was about to add a few more to the list.

  Slamming his palms against the bikers’ table, he bared human teeth. The table teetered, knocking a longneck to the ground with a crash. He twisted the broken glass into the floor and growled, “I suggest you shut the fuck up.” The low tenor of his voice let them know it wa
sn’t a suggestion.

  Like a slap in the face, he felt the wolves’ power rush at him at once. His jaw clenched. Wolves were a dangerous breed to tangle with. His father had learned that the hard way. A pack could feed off each other’s power. This pack was more powerful than most.

  “Or else?” one of the bikers snarled, shoving away from the table and rising to meet him nose to nose.

  One effortless split at a time, long, razor-sharp claws emerged from Trent’s fingers. Despite the intoxication he had felt just a moment ago, the adrenaline pushed clarity into him. He moved faster than the other man could see. One minute they were standing nose-to-nose, the next, a wake of knocked-over tables led a path to where he had the biker pinned to the wall. Trent pulled his claws back enough so he could wrap a hand around the man’s neck.

  “Or else”—he let the predator out—”I’ll rip off your jaw and watch you bleed to death. I’ve listened as patiently as I could while you rattled on about fucking this and fucking that. I suggest you show some respect. Sam’s off the menu.” As he spoke, he tightened his grip around the neck beneath his palm and watched with morbid pleasure as his prisoner’s lips tinged blue.

  Heat pressed into his back. The buzzing in his head grew worse. The wolf’s pack mates circled close, snarling. He heard the flash of their claws like a dozen swords slicing through the air. Apparently he wasn’t the only one in town who couldn’t wait for the full moon.

  Chapter Two

  45 minutes previously

  Samantha tugged on the tap, and pale, amber liquid swirled into the bottom of the mug. Her senses dampened by the overwhelming scent of cigarettes, she was barely able to pick out the smell of the ale. This brew reminded her of vinegar and citrus. Gross. Tilting the glass, she watched the beer cascade into a pool. When the paper-thin layer of foam reached the rim, she let off the handle. Placing the last of the order on Brenda’s tray, she turned to fill the next ticket. She would not think about Trenton Gregory tonight.