When the final tremors dissipated, Jason eased her back and worked at the knots, untying them slowly, smoothly, pausing only to caress a private curve, a damp hollow. Each length of red hemp was deftly coiled and set aside. Dazed and dreamy, Justine lay in a passive sprawl while he rubbed and kissed the faint cord marks on her body. Her limbs were heavy, her heartbeat unhurried. Every nerve was alert to the pleasure of Jason’s hands on her, the intimate energy that flowed back and forth between them.

“What’s a shunga print?” she asked eventually, her voice blurred as if she’d just come out of a deep sleep.

“Ancient erotic art.” Jason wrapped a blanket around her and held her against his chest. “Hand-painted images showing couples in sexual positions.” His hand played gently in her hair. “To make it as stimulating as possible, the men are usually shown with exaggerated genitalia.”

“In your case, that would be accurate.”

She felt Jason smile against her head. But a second later, he eased her head back to look down at her with a flicker of concern. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She traced the edge of his upper lip with her fingertip. “I just meant that you’re very … satisfying.” Yawning, she leaned her head back against his chest. “And you were right.”

“About what, baby?” he whispered.

“Being tied. I feel a little different, somehow. I feel…” She groped for words. “There was a moment when I was open and feeling everything and taking everything, and even though you were the one in charge, I felt like…” She hesitated, unwilling to say it.

“You owned me,” Jason said quietly. “You knew I was yours.”

Justine couldn’t reply, even though it was true. Especially because it was true. Settling deeper in his arms, she became aware of a slight soreness here and there, subtle reminders of ropes and flesh and pleasure.

After a while, she was dimly aware that Jason had left the bed and had returned with a damp washcloth, the moist heat moving over her face and limbs and between her thighs. The need for sleep was overwhelming. He pulled the covers over them both and she felt herself sinking into layers of inviting darkness.

“I’m coming back to you, Justine,” she heard him say. “You know that, don’t you?”

“You promised you wouldn’t.”

“You’ll want me to.” When she didn’t answer, he held her more closely. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

Justine had every reason to fear for both of them. The safety she felt in his arms was only an illusion. But she would take it for now.

* * *

The shriek of the alarm clock woke Justine into a state of heart-pounding alertness. With a muffled exclamation, she crawled across the mattress and hit the snooze button. Collapsing onto her back, she groaned at the prospect of starting the day.

After a long, shivering stretch, she yawned and glanced around the room. Thin morning light had seeped through the shutters, casting the room in muted colors like a vintage postcard. Her gaze was attracted by an incongruous splash of red … three bundles of hemp rope on the nightstand.

Mortified color spread over her as images flashed through her mind. She wished she could have claimed that the previous night had happened as a result of one glass of wine too many. Because no one had that kind of sex while sober. Crazy sex. Off-the-chain sex. I-can-never-see-you-again sex.

Justine inched lower on the bed and tugged the sheet up to her nose. Had those bundles of hemp not been left out, she might have convinced herself it had been a dream. Unfortunately she could recall every detail. The way Jason had gripped the ropes to pull her body onto his, the way he had traced and kissed the marks on her skin afterward. The sight of him so deliberate and intent, a flush of passion on his face. His smoke-and-brimstone whisper … “You owned me.”

She had felt it. She’d had him going hard, all wrapped up in her, taking her mouth with hard sweet kisses and breathing her name in between, every muscle in his body straining to get closer, deeper. At the end, a sound had caught in his throat as if something had hurt him. Unable to hold him in her arms, she’d gripped him down below, a tight caressing clasp while he spilled inside her.

Remembering, Justine let out an unsteady sigh. Her chest was heated with a leftover erotic glow.

The warmth faded, however, as she reminded herself that Jason was gone. Spirits willing, he would be safe now that he was away from her. Don’t think about him. Don’t miss him or his blinding smile or those long kisses or how his skin always seemed hotter than normal, like a perpetual low-grade fever.

How did you stop yourself from loving someone? You could end a relationship, but you couldn’t end the feelings that had fueled it. Only time could do that … maybe.

Sitting up, Justine pushed back the tangled sheaf of her hair and reached over to the nightstand for her necklace, the long chain with the copper key.

It wasn’t there.

Had it fallen? Frowning, she slipped out of bed and hunted for the chain on the floor. She looked behind the nightstand. Still nothing.

She felt sick, covered in adrenaline stings, the way it felt when she was about to fall but had caught herself, nerves zinging with the anticipation of pain. Her mouth and throat went dry. She was too numb even to feel her heartbeat. Before she brought herself to look under the bed, she knew what she would find.

The Triodecad was gone.

Nineteen

The only fortunate aspect of the situation was that with the guests gone, no one was there to hear the howl of outrage coming from the back cottage. Nor did anyone witness the explosion of an alarm clock, two lightbulbs, and a toaster.

By the time Justine had regained control, the cottage was filled with a light acrid haze of smoke and she was huddled on the floor. Her eyes were hot and bone-dry with fury. She was going to kill Jason Black. Creatively. Slowly.

Clasping her head in her hands, she tried to think through the red cloud of rage.

How could Jason have stolen her spellbook? No one could take it from her … it wasn’t possible. And yet somehow he had.

“I swear I won’t come back unless you ask me to.”

The bastard had known that she would want him to come back, if only to return her spellbook. She let out a guttural cry of rage.

What the hell did he think he was going to do with the Triodecad? Did he think he could just open it and recite a spell like he was reading a Betty Crocker recipe?

No. Whatever else Jason was, he wasn’t stupid. He knew he would need a crafter to help him. The concept of paying someone to cast a spell—magic for hire—was as old as time. From Jason’s point of view, stealing the Triodecad was a Hail Mary play, a gamble with no downside. As he had told her the previous night, he was already living on borrowed time. He intended to do exactly as he pleased, and then talk Justine into forgiving him. Fat chance, she thought darkly.

Struggling to her feet, Justine went to her bedroom. She pulled on some leggings and an oversized tee. Her gaze went to the dark space beneath the bed, and her chin trembled. She hadn’t been separated from the Triodecad since Marigold had given it to her.

Justine left her cottage and went to the empty inn. The Inari group was gone, and Zoë wasn’t coming until the afternoon. Four of the rooms had been booked for the weekend, but that was a couple of days away.

Bounding up the stairs, Justine went to the Klimt room. Jason had left nothing behind. No note. No message on her phone. The covers had been drawn up neatly over the bed. Justine sat on the mattress and dialed Priscilla. It was especially galling that Justine didn’t even have Jason’s cell number and had to reach him through his assistant.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she said to herself through gritted teeth. “Justine Hoffman, do not ever sleep with a man without getting his phone number first.”

At the moment, Priscilla and Jason and the others were on the company plane, flying back to San Francisco. Or maybe the Inari group was going to San Francisco and Jason was heading somewhere else. With the Triodecad. Damn him, what was he going to do with it?

The call clicked through to Priscilla’s voice mail, directing her to leave a message. “Priscilla,” she said tersely, “have Jason call me as soon as possible. He has something that belongs to me. I want it back.”

Ending the call, Justine flopped back on the bed. She tried to think of what to do next. Undoubtedly she should call Rosemary and Sage for guidance, but the idea of having to confess how monumentally she had screwed up … that she had lost possession of one of the most revered grimoires in the Tradition … no. No way. She would handle this on her own. It was her mess, her fault, and she would deal with the fallout.

Continuing to lie on the bed, she redialed Priscilla and left another message. “It’s me again. This is important, Priscilla: Tell Jason he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s going to put himself and possibly other people in danger. Make him call me right away.”

Fuming, Justine ended the call and stared at the ceiling. Priscilla had to know something about what Jason was planning. He had probably put her in charge of finding someone who could work a spell. And Justine was pretty certain that Priscilla wouldn’t let the questionable morality of Jason’s plans bother her. She was too ambitious to let anything get in the way of her career. Whatever Jason wanted, Priscilla would do without hesitation.

I have to reach him before he tries anything.

Arrogant, lying lowlife … the question of what Jason might do with the Triodecad in his possession, given half a chance … the possibilities were appalling.

As she tried to keep from thinking the unthinkable, Justine was infuriated to discover that she was unconsciously rubbing her cheek against Jason’s pillow, subconsciously trying to derive comfort from the scent of him. Hades’ bones. Grabbing the pillow, she hurled it against the wall.

* * *

To expend some of her rampaging energy, Justine spent three hours replacing a couple of old damaged floor planks in the dining room. It was a project she’d kept on the back burner, until she found the right time to take care of it. Now was as good a time as any. She took particular enjoyment in pounding the new planks into place with a rubber mallet, imagining she was hammering parts of Jason Black’s anatomy.

When her phone rang, Justine’s heart began to slam hard against her ribs. An unfamiliar number appeared on the tiny screen. She fumbled to press the “accept call” button, and held it up to her ear.

“Hello?”

Conflicting emotions coursed through her as she heard Jason’s infuriatingly calm voice. “You know why I did it.”

“Yes, I know why. And it doesn’t make you any less of a sneaky, self-serving shithead. Where are you?”

“Traveling.”

“Traveling to where?”

“East Coast.”

“Where on the East Coast?”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

Justine burned with indignation. “I want my book back now. The Triodecad isn’t going to do you any good. You don’t understand the first thing about magic—this is a disaster waiting to happen.”

“You’ll have the book back soon.”

“The next time I see you, I will Taser you with my bare hands!”

His tone turned gently cajoling. “I understand why you’re upset.”

“Yeah, funny how I tend to overreact when I’m robbed.”

“I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it.”

“Oh, please,” she said wrathfully, and hung up.

In fewer than thirty seconds, her phone rang again. Justine answered it without preamble. “Tell me who’s going to do the spell-casting, or I’ll hang up again.”

He hesitated for a long moment. “Priscilla.”

Priscilla? Justine’s fingers went to her mouth, mashing her lips against her teeth. When she could manage to speak, she said unsteadily, “Fiveash. I knew her last name meant something. She’s a crafter. She’s … My God. Is she natural-born?”

“Yes. Inexperienced … but she has the creds.”

This wasn’t heartache. This was a body-and-soul ache. A toxic mixture of shame, anger, hurt, mainlining into her veins. “You used Priscilla to come here and prey on me. You were planning to take the Triodecad from the beginning. Before you even knew me!”

At least Jason didn’t insult her by trying to deny it. “After I met you, the reasons changed. Before, I was going to do it out of self-interest. Now it’s because I want to be with you. Because I—”

“I don’t give a damn if your reasons changed, or what your motivation is,” she said hotly. “Your actions are the same. And whatever you try with my grimoire is going to backfire.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“I’m not just talking about you, you self-absorbed ass! It could backfire on Priscilla, or me, or someone else down the line who had nothing to do with this. Listen to me: The burden of proof falls on the crafter to make certain the spell won’t harm anyone. You don’t know who will be affected.”

“I know there are risks if I go ahead with this. But if I don’t, Justine … I have no chance. No sand left in the hourglass. And to be with you—for as long as possible—is all that means anything to me now.”

“You can’t use magic to screw around with matters of life or death. The spirits will find a way to turn it against you.”

“Then you make the choice,” Jason said coolly. “You love me. We know the consequences of that. You want me to sit back and wait for the anvil to drop?”

“I don’t love you,” Justine tried to say, except that she was forced to stop between words and take a painful extra breath, and to her disgust, she was fighting not to cry.

Love, she reflected bitterly, wasn’t something you bargained with or negotiated terms with … it lived by its own rules. Love appeared when you didn’t want it and refused to go. It was like an invasive species that entered your garden without warning, and proceeded to grow wildly out of control, resistant to every method employed to kill it.

Basically, love was pigweed.

“All I want,” Jason said, “is to take care of this and come back to you. I’ll do whatever you ask from then on. I’ll give you anything you’ve ever wanted.”

“Don’t you dare try to buy me!”

“I’ll rub your feet when you’re tired. I’ll hold you when you’re lonely. I’ll love you like no woman has ever been loved on this earth.” He paused. “You just have to give me a pass on this one little thing.”