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  Death’s Lover

  Marie Hall

  New York Boston

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  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  To my husband, who never stopped believing in me. To many fans for reading my books and always wanting to know when the next one is coming out. I write for you guys!

  Acknowledgments

  To my agent, Jessica Faust, for never quitting on this book; to the fantastic cover artist; and to Latoya Smith for taking a chance on a story about death and love.

  Chapter 1

  Eve Philips gripped her husband’s arm tighter as they walked across the sidewalk to the mall entrance. She hadn’t felt good this morning; she’d been haunted by bad dreams all night long. Dreams of blood and violence and gore. She’d screamed herself awake, clinging to her husband with a vague unsettling feeling. But as dreams often do, the intensity of it faded until now all that was left was a lingering echo of it and an annoying headache.

  It was almost Christmas, and she and her husband had a shopping date planned. She refused to wuss out now over some stupid dreams. Still, the unease of this morning lingered in the darkest corners of her mind. Usually she could just shake these things. Maybe it was just the old, burned coffee the java shack had served her this morning. Either way, she really wanted to stop stressing about it. There were too many other real things to worry about.

  Like the fact that in three days her coven would be required to vote on the fate of a werewolf who’d been caught stabbing his human wife. No matter that his wife had tried to kill him first with the aid of a warlock’s spell. Humans demanded the supernatural folk—or “supers,” as they preferred to be called—governed themselves as swiftly and brutally as possible, especially when the crime involved one of their own. That was the life of a witch, especially one who chose to live in a city in as much turmoil as San Francisco. Still, there was no other place in the world she’d rather be.

  By congressional act, California had granted the first and only place that the others could come out of hiding and live as they truly were. Werewolves no longer had to hide in tunnels, vampires could roam the streets freely at night, and witches could practice their craft without fear of retribution by the normals. That was ten years ago, and she’d never looked back.

  Not to say that it was one big love fest. A snake could shed its skin several times in a lifetime, but that would never change its true essence. In the end a snake would always remain a snake. Just as a vampire could not help but feed, or a werewolf would go mad by light of the full moon.

  Having so many volatile and sometimes dangerous groups in such close proximity practically begged for the violence to occur.

  But she accepted it and moved on, because freedom was worth any price. Glancing around, she inhaled the sharp nip to the wind. It was a cloudless, gray day. The type that made her want to curl up in front of a roaring fire with a steaming cup of chamomile, cocooned against her husband’s body.

  She didn’t notice the small rut in the road and stepped down hard. Muddy water splashed up her leg. A large black gob of goo landed square on her bloodred pumps.

  “Damn it!”

  Michael glanced down. One side of his mouth curled into a half-formed grin. She growled and picked up a dead leaf to scrape off the nasty mixture.

  “I don’t even want to know what that was.” He laughed.

  Eve stood and glared at her husband’s smiling face. Turning her nose in the air, she dropped the leaf with disgust and walked away.

  “Honey.” He grabbed her hand and chuckled. “You gotta admit…it was pretty funny.”

  “Ha-ha. I’m just howling with laughter.” She pointed a finger to her deadpan face. “This is me in hysterics.”

  Michael hugged her and slowly she smiled, never really that mad to begin with, but loving to be a little dramatic all the same.

  “Why does that only ever happen to me?”

  “Because you’re just so cute, the goddess had to give you some sort of flaw.”

  She nailed him with a glare and then sighed with exasperation when he refused to look at her. Michael refused to be ruffled today.

  The mall was appropriately decorated: a large Christmas tree sat guard to the entrance, festive lights hung swag from one light post to the next, and there was, of course, the melee of people shoving against her at a constant, repetitive pace with barely an apology to be gained. She sighed. To say she had a love-hate relationship with the holidays was putting it mildly.

  But Michael had been acting secretive all day, alluding to some great gift she’d find under the tree come Yule. In truth, her husband’s enthusiasm for life was contagious. She wouldn’t miss the annual last-minute shopping for the world, though she’d never tell him that.

  “Michael,” she grumbled, “let’s go home. It’s freezing. My feet hurt, and…” She paused, trying to think of the next excuse to come up with.

  He only smiled as expected. “Love you, shrew.”

  She rolled her eyes, trying desperately not to snort with laughter.

  Then as if the weather felt some need to remind her just how cold it was—and that she had no freaking business being out in the first place—she was blasted with a sweep of frigid air up her trench coat.

  She shivered. “Stupid weatherman. I should hex his ass. He said temperatures of sixty.”

  Michael’s lips twitched. “When are you gonna learn that were don’t know his ass from his head? The man’s worthless. Call a toad a toad and a bad weatherman a bad weatherman. Period.”

  She nodded. “Hear, hear.”

  Ten minutes later Eve fingered a delicate gold-and-emerald butterfly brooch. “Baby, do you think Tamryn would like this?”

  He glanced up from browsing at a case of black pearl necklaces she’d considered buying for her sister. “Sure. I guess.”

  She laughed. “‘I guess’? The standard male answer for everything, right? Why do I even bother?” She caught the heavily made-up clerk’s eye and nodded.

  The blonde glided over in a sea of expensive perfume and sent a blatantly lustful smile in Michael’s direction. Eve hid her laughter under a pursed lip and raised brow. “The butterfly,” she prompted and handed the lady a fifty.

  Michael grinned and encircled Eve’s waist from behind, laying his head on her shoulder. A soft lock of his doe-brown hair brushed the side of her neck. She swept the hair aside and sighed.

  “You just love it when that happens, don’t you?”

  “What?” he asked in a rush of innocence.

  “‘What?’” she mimicked. “You’re too gorgeous for your own good.”

  Throaty laughter spilled from his lips as he swayed with her in time to the strains of “Jingle Bell Rock” floating through the overcrowded department store.

  Eve snuggled deeper into his arms.

  Michael nuzzled the side of her neck.

  Her whole body tightened up in reaction to his touch. Even after five years of marriage he still had the power to make her heart flutter and her knees tremble.

  “Michael,” she whispered.

  “Hmm?” He placed a gentle kiss on the nape of her neck.

  Goose bumps skimmed along her forearms. “I’m ovulating.”

  H
e went still for a split second then nipped her earlobe. His large hand framed her stomach. “Let’s go make babies, then.”

  Her lip twitched, and she wiggled her bottom against him. Michael growled low in his throat and pinned her arms to her side, holding her still. “Eve,” he warned.

  She turned and draped her arms over his neck. “What?”

  He dragged her closer, a mischievous twinkle in his emerald-green eyes. “Imp. You’re lucky I’m wearing a coat long enough…”

  “Excuse me.” A strained voice interrupted them.

  She turned. The sales clerk held her purchase and change in one hand. Her narrowed eyes and curled lip were too much for Eve to ignore.

  Taking the bag and without missing a beat, Eve leaned forward just enough to part her button-down shirt at the collar, causing her pentagram to swing free from between her breasts. “He ain’t on the market, babe.”

  The clerk, obviously human, turned deathly white. No human liked to tangle with the dark arts. And though that wasn’t what Eve did by any means, the blonde didn’t know it, and Eve sure as heck wasn’t going to correct her assumption. Judging by the reaction, the threat had done its job.

  With a smile and a jaunty wave, she turned on her heel and marched off.

  Michael held out his arm. “What in the world did you say to her, Eve?” She didn’t miss the tinge of humor lacing his voice.

  She just grinned. “What? And give you a bigger head than you’ve already got? I don’t think so.”

  He chuckled and grabbed her hand in his, caressing her knuckle with the pad of his thumb. Laughter glittered in his eyes. Then he became serious and turned her face to look directly at him. “I love you.”

  The way he said it made her shiver. One of those freaky moments in time that made her wonder if there was some sort of sixth sense involved, then she thought of the dream again and the visions of death.

  Her smile slipped for a millisecond. She always tried to be aware of the signs and the environment around her. What if she was being purposefully ignorant? Ignoring the obvious? What if that dream really was a warning?

  Don’t make more out of this than what it is. Everything’s fine.

  Pushing the neurotic fears to the back of her mind, she gave him a crooked smile. “I know, Mikey. And I thank the goddess every day for you.”

  * * *

  Cian waited within shadow just outside the entrance to the mall; the mortals he’d been sent to harvest should appear soon. Keeping his back to the crowd, he stood in such a way so that he had a clear view of the door as pedestrians filed and in out of the busy shopping plaza.

  Using his essence, he transformed himself into an ordinary guy, hardly worth a second glance. Through all the years of using this guise, he’d never once been remembered. Right now, he needed people to look past him, not see the peculiarities that branded him not quite human. Unfortunately he couldn’t go fully invisible until the harvest time came upon him.

  His hair turned a drab brown, short and barely reaching his collar, his eyes much the same color. The process happened so fast, no one even had time to react at all.

  Staring at his gloved hand he waited for the next step of his transformation to take place. He didn’t have to wait long. A shock, like a burst of flame, ran down his arm and into his hand, turning him from man to monster. Fire traveled his veins, making him grunt with a momentary flash of pain. He hissed and snatched off his left glove, making sure he was well within shadow. The day was so drab and gray that unless he did something obvious, like flash the crowd, no one would turn his way.

  He clenched his hand, studying the bones of his fingers. For an outsider, to look at the transformation would seem surreal. Above the wrist he was man—flesh and blood. But when the change overcame him, and it was time to harvest souls, the hand turned to a design of the macabre. The flesh, muscle, and tendon literally faded from sight.

  Human depictions always had the grim reapers wearing the traditional black cowl with a sickle in their skeletal grip. In truth, reapers were as normal as man. You could pass them on the street, commenting on their remarkable beauty, little knowing that beneath the white smile and ever-present gloves lurked the killer of legend.

  A small, noisy crowd of humans walked toward him. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he leaned against the wall and waited; it wouldn’t be much longer now.

  After centuries of doing this job, he’d learned patience, the art of stealth, and the endless waiting game of death. For such a vital and intricate part of life, the actual moment of death could be unbelievably boring.

  Several minutes later, an electrical rush of power surged through his body when a couple walked out. A man and a raven-haired witch. He felt her power ripple through the air like a powerful ocean current. The man though exhibited no energy, which meant he was fully mortal. The man grabbed the witch around the waist, pulling her close for a quick embrace.

  Cian’s pulse pounded when she smiled. It was a good smile, the kind that made him want to return it, to see her do it again just so he could have the enjoyment of gazing on that kind of radiant and rare pure joy.

  The man hopped in front of her and grabbed her hands, toying with her fingers. Her laughter was a rich, lilting sound, deep and throaty, hot and sexy, and for the first time in his life, Cian wondered what it might be like to have a woman look at him that way. He envied mortals in some ways, specifically the way they could enjoy life, short as it was, and how they loved one another. He couldn’t think of anyone who’d look so happy to see him.

  Those thoughts were jerked from him as the final phase of his transformation washed through his body. A charge, like static energy, traveled through his pores, his blood, and in seconds he’d gone completely invisible. Only able to be seen by those straddling the line between life and death, he strolled purposefully toward the car garage.

  Today’s scenario would be no different than the thousands of others he’d seen through the years. He could see it in his mind, like an image on a television screen. A carload of teenagers barreling through the garage, the interior of the car heavily laced with the thick stench of cannabis. The driver was laughing, blaring the Ozzy tune “Crazy Train,” unaware that soon he’d be indicted for two counts of vehicular homicide.

  Cian often wondered at times like these why the humans couldn’t feel it. The end of their lifeline, the disturbance in the air, death; for him it was like the blast of trumpets, loud and hard to ignore.

  Turning his attention back to the couple, he waited. The man popped open the trunk of a green sedan, laid down his packages, and flashed the witch a smile. She stood by the hood of the car, her midnight curls blowing in the stiff wind.

  The faint rumble of an approaching engine echoed eerily through the garage. The vibrations traveled through the soles of his feet. Soon. It’ll all be over soon.

  For a crazy second he wanted to scream at them. Move. Get out of the way. But he held his tongue. He wouldn’t interfere, that was the single most important rule of the reaper. His skeletal hand twitched, and he yanked it out of his pocket. No mistakes.

  The car made a sharp left around a concrete post in the garage and swerved headlong toward the couple with a loud, echoing cry of rubber.

  For Cian the scene was agonizingly slow, each detail sharp and clear, as if it were taking minutes, though in truth it would be done within seven seconds.

  When they finally noticed it was already too late.

  The witch’s golden eyes grew wide in her face. Blood rushed from her skin, leaving her a pasty white. Her hands covered her mouth as a scream of raw fear flew from her lips. “Michael!”

  The smile on the man’s face died. He turned—unable to run for cover, to hide from his fate. She ran forward, arms outstretched, and tried to pull the man toward her.

  Metal exploded against flesh. The sickening crunch of bone and tearing muscle warred with the scream of tires braking. The man was dragged under the car. She was flung aside, her limbs at odd proportion
s.

  Cian’s heart clenched painfully when he saw her ravaged body lying so helpless on the ground. She looked like a morbid porcelain doll. Beautiful and broken.

  Blood spattered everywhere. All over the windshield. Even on the neighboring vehicles in the next three slots. The overwhelming metallic stench was all around.

  The car squealed to a halt, slamming against the side of the sedan. The shattering of glass echoed through the garage with an eerie finality. It was done; their bodies slowly dying, their souls waiting only for him to harvest and carry on to the appropriate afterlife.

  The driver, a pimply-faced redhead emerged. “Oh no! No!” he sang the litany over and over. He ran a trembling hand through his hair and glanced up. A family in the next row over stared back in openmouthed shock.

  “Get back in the car, Derek!” the girl in the passenger seat screamed.

  The wind picked up flurries of snow, enclosing them in winter’s peaceful embrace. An ironic scene, at odds with the gruesome sight of death before him.

  The kid jumped back in his car and squealed off with one last bump-bump in his wake.

  Cian closed the gap between himself and the victims. First the male. The man’s face had been nearly sheared off. His forehead was cracked open and a constant stream of blood gushed from the wound. Kneeling, Cian extended his skeletal hand, ready to harvest the soul and carry it safely to the afterlife.

  The man moaned and opened green eyes glittering with pain. He didn’t question why Cian was kneeling over him; instead he parted ruptured lips and croaked, “Save my wife.”

  Cian glanced over at her prostrate form for a brief second and then shook his head with a sad, bitter twist to his lips. He’d seen many broken bodies in the past, never feeling more than quiet detachment. But seeing her now, hearing the wet gurgle of her breaths, it was like razor-sharp spikes driving through his heart.

  He closed his eyes, chanting over and over in his mind: This is the order to life. Without order there would be chaos. To prevent the chaos there must always be order.