Boyle moved at the last moment, but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid the satisfying bite of the blade into demon meat. He bellowed, grabbed the blade with both of his massive hands and threw it across the room. It shattered the window at the far end.

Isabelle cringed at the sound of breaking glass and the noises of an animal in pain. She’d wounded him with the blade, but he still hadn’t had the allergic reaction he’d had in the parking lot, damn it.

Blood coursed from the demon’s side, soaking his jeans and the black T-shirt and leather jacket he wore. With one mighty sweep of his arm, he smashed the liquor cart near him, sending the bottles and glasses crashing to the polished wood floor.

“You have the blend I need, Isabelle Novak, but there are others. You have time to think on my proposal. I’m doing this only because I felt how distraught you were over the most recent deaths. Ah. I see your face. Yes, little witch, I’m empathic. I will come for you when I am ready. I have work to do before you. Sacrifice yourself and you save another witch, or save yourself and doom another to death. The choice is yours.”

She stared up at him. Boy, she didn’t like the options.

“The head mage has grown fond of you,” Boyle added. “The one ridden by the angel. Do not let him know of my offer. His interference will mean his death. You have been warned.” Boyle turned, threw open a doorway, and exited. Poof and he was gone.

Shock numbing her body and stealing her thought, Isabelle sank to the floor amid the jagged edges of broken bottle and glass. Amber-colored liquid mixed with clear on the dark wood floor. From the opening of the shattered window at the far end of the room, early morning air drifted in and made her shiver.

Lady…

Soon the numbness let go and pain registered. Her throat ached and burned at the same time. Now that the demon was gone the adrenaline slowly leaked from her system, leaving her feeling like she’d just been hit by a freight train.

Her life for another witch’s.

Would she have traded her life for Brandon’s or Mary’s? Her mind balked at the choice, riffled through scenarios. Selfishness screamed no. How could she sacrifice her life for a stranger’s? She liked life. She liked her life. Dying wasn’t on her agenda for a good sixty or more years. Isabelle was no martyr and she’d never been particularly self-sacrificing.

But would she have traded her life for her sister’s? Nausea roiled through her stomach. The answer, of course, was yes. Would she have given her life to protect that little girl from the demon? She’d done her level best, hadn’t she?