Collateral Damage_A Tethered Novel Page 3

  She reached inside for the light she had learned was the core of her magic and pulled at it. She felt the drain as it bled through her fingers and into her captor’s latest victim, but she continued anyway. Even as her mind got foggy, and her hands began to shake over his wound.

  “Cait?” she heard him whisper, but she ignored him and continued to press everything she had into his body.

  What felt like hours later, but had probably been mere seconds, she heard him yell, “Move!” Her eyes snapped open just as she was shoved to the side. Her head impacted with the pavement as a gunshot rang out again and she briefly wondered if the assassin had recovered from her blast of magic and shot her too, it wouldn’t surprise her. She had yet to conjure up anything lethal.

  “Can you hear me?” The man she healed kneeled next to her, and she nodded. “Fuck,” he cursed. She felt herself being lifted and then everything went dark.

  * * *

  “There’s a dead man in my alley,” Timothy notified Ashton over the phone. He could have easily gone down and spoken face to face with the guard, but he hadn’t wanted to leave the woman on his couch alone for long. “Take care of him,” he ordered and hung up the phone.

  He ran his hands through his hair and fought the urge to curse. What the fuck had just happened? Who was this mystery woman?

  She looked just like his Cait. The bright red hair, freckles that covered her nose, even the blue eyes he had seen for only a moment before she passed out, were the spitting image of the woman he had spent the best years of his life with.

  The main difference he saw now, was a long scar that ran the length of the right side of her jaw, and a birthmark near her left eye.

  So, who the hell was this woman? How had she come to be in that alley? He kept his distance even though he knew that without her he would have died. The fact that he was still breathing meant two things: his curse was broken, and she was a fucking witch. Another magical being crashing into his life and wrecking everything he had worked so hard to accomplish.

  He changed his shirt, desperate to get out of the blood-soaked fabric. Ashton would dispose of the body and would hopefully be able to shine some light on who the hell that man was and just why he’d wanted to ‘watch him bleed’ as the asshole had so eloquently put it.

  Timothy looked back at the sleeping form. She had nearly died saving him. This witch had almost completely drained herself while she healed him. Had she meant to? Or was she naïve? Either way, he needed to get her the hell out of his life as soon as possible. He had no time for magic. Especially not when he might finally have the gift of mortality.

  “Fuck,” he muttered. The last damn thing he needed was a witch who didn’t know shit about her own powers.

  Timothy pulled his jacket on over his shirt and headed back out towards the alley.

  “You good boss?” Ashton stepped out into the alley with him. Timothy nodded, grateful it was a loyal man who knew his secret on duty rather than one of the others who might have questioned their boss who was unharmed, yet his blood was in a pool on the pavement.

  “Yeah, just more shit to deal with.” Timothy lit up a cigarette and offered the guard one from his pack.

  “Thanks, boss.” Ashton took one and lit it. “So, any idea who this guy is?”

  Timothy shook his head. “Not a damn clue.”

  “You good?”

  “You know me, I’m difficult to kill.” Except tonight apparently, he thought to himself. He didn’t want to worry his friend just yet though, so he left that part out.

  Ashton let out a dark laugh. “I’m glad you are. This guy is packing some pretty serious heat.” He knelt next to the body and using a pen, lifted the edge of the man’s sweatshirt.

  Timothy pulled from the cigarette and felt his nerves relax slightly as the tobacco hit his system. He knelt next to his now dead attacker and looked at what Ashton had uncovered.

  Two more pistols in the man’s waist, a large knife clipped to his belt, and what looked to be a garrote dangling from a belt loop.

  “So, someone sent an assassin after me,” Timothy commented as he stood.

  Ashton followed. “It would appear so. Now the question is why?”

  “Could be a competitor looking to shut my company down.”

  “Possibly, we need to figure out who he is, so we can find out who sent him.”

  They looked up as two black SUV’s pulled into the alley. “Just in time,” Ashton commented and walked towards the men climbing out of the vehicle.

  Timothy watched as the men photographed his attacker and then loaded him in a body bag. Another team came in and cleaned up the blood and brass. Ashton would make this disappear and get to the bottom of why the man had been sent to him in the first place.

  It was why he’d hired him in the first place. Ashton was ex-FBI and had spent fifteen years in the Army as Special Forces. He was as solid as they came and had contacts high up in both the FBI and the CIA.

  It had been a mere coincidence that Ashton had found out his secret. As it turned out, the man was a history buff and had stumbled across a picture of an old platoon from WWII. Ashton had come to Timothy to make a joke about how one of the men resembled him. At first, Timothy had managed to brush it off.

  But that night, he had been badly injured when a mugger shot him multiple times, and Ashton had been called in to help clean up the mess. Timothy hadn’t had a chance to change clothes yet and was still covered in his own blood.

  Ashton had begun asking questions Timothy hadn’t been able to answer, so in the end, he’d told the man the truth, and after a few minutes of stunned silence, while he decided whether or not he believed his boss, Ashton simply nodded and went on his way. Ever since Timothy had considered Ashton to be one of his closest friends, well he would be if Timothy had any.

  The vehicles pulled out of the alley and Ashton made his way back over to Timothy. “We’ll get this taken care of.”

  “I know you will.”

  “You sure you’re good, boss?”

  “I’m good.” Timothy headed back upstairs to his office.

  She was still asleep when he opened the door, so he took a moment to stare down at her. It was amazing to him how similar she was to his late wife. So much so, that seeing her lying there, stabbed him in the heart the same way it had to watch her dying of old age all those years ago.

  This woman’s red hair curled lightly around her face, having fallen out of whatever tie she had used to hold it back. He fought the urge to brush it out of her face. She is not Cait, this woman is a damn witch. He reminded himself.

  She stirred slightly, and Timothy covered her with a blanket and lifted the backpack she had been carrying from the floor.

  He opened it and pulled out a few books on magic, foolish ones that were written by those who only wished they could understand the power some held, a notepad with brief magic notes written on it, a small bag of pens, and a cylinder container.

  Abandoning everything but the container, he walked to his desk and pulled out some gloves. Anyone with an ounce of sense could see that whatever the container held was fragile and incredibly old.

  He gently tipped the container up and let the rolled canvas fall into his gloved hands. As he unrolled it, his heart thudded in his chest. He knew this painting. Had been there when it had been painted. Now, he thought as he looked down at the smiling faces of he and Cait, how in the hell had this woman gotten her hands on it?

  Chapter 4

  Paislee opened her eyes to the light pouring in through a window. It was her first sense that something was off. Her windows were all covered, and she never pulled back the curtains.

  Her head felt like it had been split in two as memories of the night raced back to her. A man with a gun. A second man bleeding to death in an alley. A blast of uncontrolled magic and her attempt to heal him.

  Her second realization was that this place was immaculate compared to the shit hole she hid in. Relics that were triple her age- some more
than- covered three of the walls, the only space being where an elevator opened. The fourth wall was covered floor to ceiling in thick glass.

  As her eyes traveled, she saw a man standing with his back to her. Her heart began to pound in her chest, had he found her? No, that’s not him. This man was much too tall to be her former captor. From behind she could see that he was heavily muscled. A white business shirt was stretched over broad shoulders and tucked into suit pants that clung to one of the best asses she had ever seen, celebrities included. Her cheeks flushed as if she was worried he could hear her thoughts. She cleared her throat, and he turned around to look at her.

  His jaw was strong and covered in light stubble, his dark hair was cut short, and she could tell he had been running his hands through it. If that wasn’t enough to make her mouth water, his shirt was half unbuttoned and baring a muscular chest that was lightly covered with hair. She knew she’d never seen him before, but there was something so incredibly familiar about him.

  It took her a moment, but she realized the familiarity was because he looked very similar to the man in the painting. That, or she was truly losing her mind.

  “Morning,” the man’s deep voice said softly.

  “Morning.” She sat up straighter. “Can you please tell me where the hell I am?”

  “McGinley Antiquities. I’m Timothy McGinley.” No man this handsome should be allowed to have an Irish accent, Paislee thought to herself, it was just wrong.

  So that hadn’t been a dream! She really had been in that alley!

  “How did I get here?” she asked deciding it might be better to play dumb on the off chance she was crazy.

  “You don’t remember?” he asked and took a seat in the armchair that was positioned across from the couch she was currently occupying. Now that he was closer, she could see the anger in the way his jaw was set, the way his eyes were unwavering and locked on her. Why the hell would he be mad at her?

  “Did I meet you in the alley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you by chance bleeding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe even dying?”

  “Certainly seemed that way.”

  Shit, she thought as the realization hit home. She had done magic in front of a stranger. Had, in fact, saved his life; was he going to keep her as a prisoner? Turn her in to be experimented on like some fucking lab rat?

  Fueled by anger, she stood. She’d die before she was someone else’s trophy witch.

  “Well as lovely as this has been, I need to go.”

  He stood as well. “You won’t be going anywhere until you explain to me why you saved my life, and how the hell you gained possession of this.” He held up the painting that was the whole reason she was here, and it only stoked the anger.

  “Why did you go through my things. That belongs to me, Mr. McGinley, so I would appreciate if you gave it back.”

  Ignoring her, he rolled it back up, put it into its case, and locked it in a safe next to his desk. “How about you start with why you were in my alley last night? Miss Adams,” he added smugly.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised he knew her name since it seemed he liked to snoop. The word asshole certainly came to mind.

  “I was sent to you to have something authenticated.”

  “Who sent you.”

  “A friend,” she retorted, her voice cool.

  “What friend?”

  “I won’t be telling you. Now, if you please-”

  “I don’t please. You might as well get comfortable since you won’t be leaving until you’ve answered my questions.” He walked back over to the chair and sat, then he leaned back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “How long have you known you were a witch?”

  She let out a nervous laugh. “Are you insane? Witches aren’t real.” She took her seat back on the couch.

  “So, you’re a liar then, that’s good to know I suppose.”

  “I am not a liar.” Her face turned red, and Timothy grinned, Cait’s face would flush when she was angry as well.

  “Fine, then answer my question.”

  “Why do you think I’m a witch?”

  “Well, for one, you have a ridiculous amount of magic texts in your bag, all of which aren’t reputable by the way. Then there’s the fact that I was going to die last night until all of a sudden I’m shooting my attacker and lifting an unconscious stranger in my arms.”

  She shivered slightly at the thought of this man’s strong arms around her. How she wished she could have remembered what it had felt like. Of course, that was before he opened his arrogant mouth. Now she wanted to throat punch him.

  “Fine. I saved your life. You’re welcome by the way.”

  “I didn’t thank you.”

  The sudden chill in his voice surprised her, why would someone be angry to still be alive?

  “Why was Malcolm’s assassin after you anyways?” She hated saying her captor’s name, but in this case, couldn’t find a way around it. She needed her own questions answered.

  His brow quirked. “Malcolm who?”

  “Malcolm Gentry.”

  “I know that name.”

  “I’m sure you do. He collects antiques.” And people she added to herself.

  “That man last night, he works for him?”

  She nodded. “He was here before I was, so it must have been you he was after.”

  “You have a reason to think he was looking for you?”

  Shit, she really needed to shut the hell up before she told him everything. “Malcolm likes antiques,” she repeated slowly. “Specifically items that hold power. He’s been after me for a while now.”

  Timothy nodded knowingly. To a man like that, an actual magical person would be the ultimate prize. “So, you came to me to have that painting authenticated.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who sent you?” he repeated his earlier question, and Paislee got the feeling they would continue talking in circles until she answered him.

  She ground her teeth together, who the hell did this guy think he was? “I’m not answering any more of your questions.” She got to her feet. “Please give me my painting back so I can get going. Unless you feel like authenticating it for me, so I can sell it.”

  “Why would you want to sell it?” He stood now, and the closeness of their bodies had her reacting in a way she hadn’t anticipated. She looked into eyes the color of steel, and she knew without a doubt, Timothy McGinley was a man she needed to avoid. There was a hardness about him, in the way he stared back at her, his eyes unwavering.

  “I have no use for it, I do, however, have a use for money if I want to continue living.”

  “I will buy it.”

  A slap across her face would have surprised her less. Why the hell did he want it? “Why the hell do you want it?” she repeated out loud and followed him to his desk.

  “I like antiques, and this one strikes my interest.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter?” He pulled out his checkbook. “I want it, you need money, I have money, seems like a done deal to me.”

  “How do I know you’re giving me a fair deal?”

  “Miss Adams,” his voice was full of irritation, and he pressed a hand to his forehead. “That painting is an original McCreary and is a hundred and ninety-eight years old.”

  “Seriously?”

  He eyed her. “Yes.”

  “So how much is it worth?”

  Timothy straightened. “It’s in good condition, and McCreary was a fairly well-known artist of his time in Ireland. People would travel from all over the country and even further at times, to have their portraits done. However, given that this painting was acquired through less than honorable conditions, I will give you eight thousand for it.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me. It has to be worth more than that.”

  “Oh, it is, but since I can’t move it because if I’m caught with it, I will go to prison, I’m going to take that into consideration.”
He folded his arms and watched her with that smug look she was growing to despise.

  He was right, of course, but she needed the money. She had waited to pawn this particular piece because she felt drawn to it and now if she were going to have to part with it, she would rather do it with enough money that she could leave and never look back.

  “Fifty thousand.”

  Timothy let out a laugh, and Paislee saw the dimple on the left side of his cheek. Why did he have to be so infuriatingly attractive?

  “Ten.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Deal.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “I agree,” Timothy commented and wrote a check. At least this way she wouldn’t have to ever go back to Giovanni. With each visit, she was worried she would burn his shop down because of his ‘fire crotch’ comments.

  “Thanks,” she said sarcastically, and put the check in her back pocket. “Hopefully, I won’t see you around.”

  “That seems rude.”

  She spun to face his eyes wild with anger. “I’m rude? Are you fucking kidding me? You’ve been nothing but an ungrateful bastard since I saved your ass in that alley last night. Maybe I should have just let you bleed to death!”

  “While I typically would have welcomed death, I’m grateful to not have met my demise just yet.”

  “Who the fuck talks like that? ‘Demise,’ he says. Ugh!” She rolled her eyes and let out a huff of anger.

  “Some women like the way I talk.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not most women.”

  “I see that.”

  “Am I free to go now?”

  “If you want this Malcolm to find you, sure.” Timothy took a seat at his desk and opened his laptop.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that he and his men are watching my building. The second you leave, he will follow you.”

  “How do you know he’s-”

  “Look.” Timothy pinched the bridge of his nose again, something Paislee was noticing he did whenever he was frustrated. “He sent a man to my alley which meant he’s been watching me. Seeing as how that man didn’t make out alive and I did, I imagine Malcolm will have some questions as to how that happened. You say they’re looking for you? The second you exit my building they will be on you quicker than you could run.”