The Witching Hour (The Grim Reaper Saga (Urban Fantasy Romance)) Read online

  The Witching Hour: Grim Reaper Saga

  Because sometimes death isn’t the end…

  After not only being run over, but watching her husband die in the same hit and run, Eve Philips thought she would never love again. Years pass and her sisters worry that she’ll become an old crone like so many other witches. They’ve made it their personal mission to help her find her next true love. But Eve wants none of that, she throws herself into her potions shop--Witches Brew--determined work, and not a lover, will fix the void in her heart.

  Until the day she sees him. Cian, gorgeous and mysterious, she’s frightened by the desires he brings out in her. A passion that rivals even the love she’d felt for her husband.

  But Cian is not what he seems. He’s fae. More than that, he’s the grim reaper of legend and his mission means her death. She shouldn’t have seen him. His kind moves in stealth, but the moment her golden eyes meets his he knows his world will never be the same. He’ll defy his orders and his Queen to keep her. But will Eve want what he offers when she discovers the truth? That he was the one who harvested her husband’s soul…

  The Witching Hour: Grim Reaper Saga

  Copyright 2012 Marie Hall

  Cover Art by Elaina of For the Muse Designs Copyright June 2012

  Formatted by Ironhorse Formatting

  Edited by Marie Hall, C.C., Sharon K.

  Kindle Edition

  This is a work fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Marie Hall, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in the context of reviews.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of all people involved with the creation of this ebook.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Marie Hall. Unauthorized or restricted use in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patent Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2012 by Marie Hall, Honolulu, Hawaii, United States of America

  Dedication

  To my readers, I thank you.

  Thank you to Lee for doing such an amazing formatting job! As always, and to my girls… you know who you are. None of this would be possible without your constant encouragement!

  Table Of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  A note from the Author

  Sneak Peek: Red and Her Wolf

  Kingdom Series Books

  Other Books by Marie Hall

  The haunting, eerily lyrical strain of Type-O Negative filled the alleyway like a siren’s wail. Beckoning. Unrelenting. Deadly.

  Undetectable to all mortal and immortal alike, Cian stood within the shadows of Club X. A popular club that catered to the interests of the supernaturals: the vampires, werewolves, and witches.

  Behind the club, the inky black of the San Francisco bay stretched for miles. City lights sparkled and danced over the obsidian water like will ‘o wisps.

  He waited, scanning the milling faces. An electrical shiver of heat sizzled down his spine; his transformation had begun. He despised this part most, seeing the victims alive, happy and smiling. Centuries of watching death was like a poisonous cancer spreading through his soul, devouring him whole. He was tired, but still he trudged on. What else was there for someone like him? He existed in darkness, a creature born to night and madness.

  Sounds of honking cabs, cable cars, and trotting horse drawn carriages warred with the knowledge that out there lurked monsters of the worst sort. They were coming out to play, to feed, and to kill. The latter a trait he knew by heart.

  The tenuous peace between the races today was a far cry from the cold reality of earlier centuries. Then, there had been war. Any person thought to be outside the norm was killed, maimed, or tortured. No questions asked. Ever.

  But the veneer of civility between the groups was fragile at best. Infighting between the clan, coven, and pack continued to this day. Partially over turf wars, but mainly over a past so dark many feared history would repeat itself.

  He lifted his hand, staring at the glove inscribed with runes of death and instantly he was transported to another time, a different era. Screaming horses, the sharp smell of crushed grass, and battle cries consumed him. It had been a massacre and all caused by the deception of the fae.

  The monsters might not want to admit it, but once they’d revered the beauty of the fairy folk, admired their skill of magick and knowledge of the arcane. But now the fae were outcasts in a society full of them. The irony was not lost on him.

  The musty odor of old blood and fur snapped him back to reality. A pack of weres threaded their way through the alleyway. Their eyes roved the dark shadows; top lips pulled back to reveal large incisors, gums exposed. Several pairs of nostrils flared as they tasted the scent of night, ever vigilant, aware, and wary.

  More followed. The soft strike of shoes on wet pavement, leather trench coats rustled as they swept the ground. The lethal, rapacious glide belonged to vampires whose postures screamed confidence and deadly grace.

  Humans came too, at least those bold enough to brave the club’s nefarious clientele. Women mostly, dressed to the nines in their short black dresses revealing impossibly long expanses of thighs; a veritable walking buffet for the baddies all around them.

  Thick smog slithered through the night like a python on the prowl.

  Then the sharp clack of stilettos striking concrete drew his attention. He glanced at the source and instantly knew many things. The raven-haired woman was coven. Her power rippled like silvery waves beneath the pale flesh of her skin.

  She was not alone. Two other females--one blonde, one redhead--walked beside her. Their striking features- high cheekbones, strong round jaws, and full red lips--proclaimed them sisters. Walking beside them was a man. He towered the sisters by a good foot. Cian waited for the tell-tell pulse of magick that covered a monster like second skin, but it never came. The man was human. He moved with an easy, uncaring stride, every once in a while brushing his thigh or hand against the dark haired witch.

  A shock, like a burst of flame, ran down his arm and into his hand, turning
him from man to nightmare. Fire traveled his veins, scorching, it made him grunt with the momentary flash of pain. He hissed and snatched off his glove. The transformation of smooth, tanned flesh turning to a skeletal hand of ivory would have frightened many.

  He clenched his hand, studying the bones of his fingers. For an outsider to look at the transformation would almost seem surreal. Above the wrist he was man, flesh and blood. But when the change overcame him--and it was time to harvest--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 glove lurked the killer of legend.

  Cian tucked his hand into his pocket and glanced up. The human male walking alongside the sisters smiled and grabbed the witch around the waist, pulling her close for a quick embrace.

  Blood pounded through Cian’s veins, quickened his pulse. He moved deeper into shadow the closer the group came to him, not that he needed to, he was now covered in glamour. A thick blanket of magick that let him see out, but no one see in. If anyone glanced in his direction the glamour would force their eyes to look away. But his eyes remained riveted to the woman.

  She laughed a rich, lilting sound. Deep and throaty, hot and sexy, bewitching just like her. Blood rushed through his head as the most unusual thoughts consumed him, what would it be like to have her smile at him? Would her eyes sparkle for him the way they did for her mortal?

  Cian’s breathing hitched, and a tangled web of scents tickled his nose--the rotting stench of food, the strong, acrid odor of human waste, but amongst those and almost imperceptible, the gentle fragrance of patchouli and vanilla.

  Hers.

  He closed his eyes, savoring the richness of it, and realized with a small pang that she smelled of home. The witch reminded him of rolling hills, crystal clear waters, and smog-free air. He missed it. Needed it. The dark stain of humanity rolled like venom through his soul.

  Clenching his jaw, he opened his eyes to see the man and two sisters enter the medieval doors of Club X. His dark witch stood poised, ready to step inside when she paused and glanced behind her shoulder.

  Golden eyes met blue.

  He sucked in a breath. Can she see me? His gut clenched. Waiting. Hoping. For what? Covered in glamour, he should have blended into shadow, one with the darkness of night and always undetectable to his prey. No one, save another reaper, could peer through his glamour.

  Perhaps she did not see him.

  A slow smile curved her lips and an answering awareness gripped his spine, making him tense and rigid. In that moment Cian felt… confusion? Joy? He grabbed his skull, gut churning, because he couldn’t understand the emotions.

  Her sharp eyed gaze narrowed and roamed the length of his body. His skin tingled with a hot rush of blood anywhere her golden eyes touched.

  Then she blinked, and the grip was gone. She turned and followed the rest of her group into the club.

  Cian’s heart thundered in his chest, he grabbed the roughened brick of the building, waiting for the tremors to subside. What the bloody hell had just happened? He swallowed hard, remembering the burn, the confusion, and impossible flood of joy. But why? She’d not looked excited to see him, her eyes hadn’t lit up, but still he’d felt it and couldn’t understand it.

  Cian glanced back, frowning at the door.

  These were the ones he’d been sent to kill: the human man and his dark witch. Grim-faced and able to breathe easier, Cian followed. His bony fingers clenched in his pocket. Death was a greedy mistress and demanded her due, their time was up.

  Cian brushed by the bouncer.

  The vampire’s one eye widened, his chin jerked as his gaze bobbed around, looking for the source of his discomfort. A low growl emanated from the vamp’s throat. Cian knew he was an anomaly, fae in form, but reeking of death.

  “What be ye?” The archaic words rumbled. The vampire was old, evidenced by the trace of crimson bleeding through his irises. He might not be able to see Cian, but his nose knew danger.

  Cian was in a hell of a mood, aggravated beyond reason that the witch had spotted him, warring with emotions not his own. He channeled his anger on the vampire and dimmed his glamour, stepping out as a wrath from shadow and grinned cockily.

  The vamps lips curled into a snarl the moment he saw him. “Fae,” he spat. “Yer kind is nay welcome here.”

  The bouncer’s powerful Nordic body invaded Cian’s space. Easily over six foot six, the old Viking probably intimidated many with his one eye and scarred face.

  Fae he might be, but Cian was death, and death would never be denied. “Move aside,” he warned, voice low, modulated. But echoing with power.

  The vampire licked his canines. His growls growing louder, like a lion faced with a rival he knows will soon maul him.

  Cian chuckled, amused by the taste of the vamps fear on his tongue. Predators always had a sixth sense when another, more powerful predator was around. An idea that settled like lead in the gut and instantly turned them feral, making them more dangerous for their unpredictability.

  A dark green vein in the vamp’s lily-white neck pulsed like the angry beat of a heart.

  Cian pulled his hand from his pocket, exposing the skeletal appendage. The bouncer stiffened when he pointed a finger at his blond head. The penetrating chill of hoarfrost shot from Cian’s hand into the air, circling the vamps head. Death’s mark. The vampire sucked in a shaky breath as his crimson stained lips turned a pale shade of blue. A dark trickle of blood slid from his nose.

  “Move aside,” Cian demanded one final time.

  The vampire moved, stumbling over his stool in his haste. With a wink, Cian shoved his hand back into his pocket, following the scent of his witch, ignoring the fury-filled stare boring into his back.

  It was ten ‘til midnight.

  He walked along the medieval stairwell at a sedate pace, pausing to enjoy the antiquated finery. The allure of the club was in its décor. Black iron chandeliers hung from rafters. Heavy crimson tapestries adorned the walls, depicting grisly scenes of death, men transforming to beasts, witches gazing into cauldrons filled with bubbling brews. The low yellow radiance cast the stairwell in a sickly light, adding shadow to hollows and turning faces into nightmarish masks of ghouls.

  There were four floors to the club, each divided by species. First the vampires, second the witches, third the shifters, and fourth the mixed flock. Yeah, he’d been here a couple times. Mainly to scout out his marks, but sometimes simply for the enjoyment of hanging out with creatures that amused him. Old as he was, very little did anymore.

  Her scent wound up past the first level and into the second. He pushed open the arched wooden doorway and scanned the dancing, shifting bodies of wizards, warlocks, and witches. Scattered throughout was an occasional human or two, but of his dark witch he couldn’t find. He lifted his nose and tracked her unique perfume.

  Her scent shimmered like a golden wash of color throughout the room. His heart picked up in speed the nearer he came. There was an allure to the witch he’d never before known. It was a burning desire to believe she’d actually seen through his glamour, that she’d seen him and liked what she’d seen. It shouldn’t matter, whether she had or hadn’t, the end would remain the same. Cian was here to reap her soul.

  But for one strange moment, he desperately wanted to believe it. Even though wanting it made him a masochist.

  He found her in a dark corner of the club. She was alone, gazing at a floor length mirror affixed to the wall and applying a dark shade of lip-gloss. Like a blackberry stain, it glistened on her plump lips and he swallowed hard.

  Five minutes ‘til midnight.

  His heart tripped in his chest at the sight she made. The mass of black curls spilling down her ba
ck, her ivory skin sparkling with tints of pink and green glitter, and the tight fit of her violet corset top--a gothic rose within a garden of thorns.

  He took a step closer, gathering even more glamour around his body. In some weird way testing what’d happened outside. Maybe it’d been a fluke, maybe she hadn’t seen him at all, perhaps she’d smiled at something or someone over his shoulder and he’d been too transfixed to realize it.

  What would she think if she saw him? He looked at himself standing so close to her in the mirror and his fingers twitched. Would she find the neon blue of his eyes shocking as so many of his own kind did? What would it feel like to be gazed at with something other than scorn? To be loved? Desired?

  He blinked the strange desires away. Turn it off. Don’t feel. Don’t want. Never. Not ever. He was Reaper, a killer, and here to do a job--nothing more, nothing less.

  Two minutes ‘til midnight.

  A heated argument between two witches over a male they both desired broke out on the dance floor. No one noticed yet, but he knew. That was part of his skill. He’d always know what, when, where, and how his victims would die. And this was how she was meant to go--an unfortunate casualty to another’s greed and lust.

  The words quickly escalated to something wild and heated and with it a simmering threat of violence. Dancers nearest the women began to notice and take pause.

  A few cleared the floor. His dark witch was still unaware.

  She slipped the lip-gloss back into the velvet drawstring purse on her wrist, and like a flame to flesh, her gaze was on his face. She smiled and whispered, “hello”.

  A physical warmth spread through his body with rocketing speed. He couldn’t rip his gaze from hers. Transfixed by her gentle beauty. As if her smile was connected to the center of his being, and for a brief moment in time, the darkness inside him washed away at the beauty of it. In her lioness gaze he read the truth.

  She saw him through eyes without revulsion. To her he was only a man. Not a monster. Not a despised fae. His breath stuttered and his fingers clenched, to know that gaze for the rest of his life would be a small miracle.