Death's Lover Page 3

  Finally, three flights down and in the darkest corridor of the castle, she arrived at the rack room. Two guards with crossed sickles stood before the door.

  Her lips twitched at the sight of Cahal. One eye was beginning to swell with an overflow of blood. The white was now a shocking sea of busted blood vessels. She loved death. They were such a lethal predator.

  Cahal’s good eye was a startling blue in contrast. He remained aloof, but she could tell by the pounding of a vein in his neck that he was agitated by her cold perusal. A thrum of electrical pleasure hummed through her body, she vibrated with the beginnings of bloodlust and reached out a hand to caress the side of Cahal’s face.

  He shivered under her touch and leaned in just slightly. A perfect teardrop of blood slid from the corner of his eye onto her pinky finger. She held it up to her nose, inhaling the scent of autumn leaves. Excitement quickened her pulse and with a delicate flick of her tongue she lapped it up. The sweet taste filled her mouth.

  “Cahal,” she said with a husky tenor, “you are truly a prize to be savored.”

  He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with breathless wonder. The redolent musk of his pride filled the air with the thick scent of turning leaves and sweet apple cider.

  A feral need for more blood ripped through her. “Leave me now,” she growled, wanting to save the fire of her madness for Cian.

  “My queen,” they said in unison and not with a small amount of relief. As one they turned and marched off with exact precision.

  She opened the door. Cian was shackled to the wall with his back toward her. A sliver of light fell across the sculpted beauty of his body. He shifted and the locks of his long hair swished across his shoulders. Alternating strands of polished sable and ivory gleamed with unholy light. The long, hard lines of his body flexed with his movement.

  “What are you waiting for?” His voice was like fine whiskey. Smooth, hot, and raw.

  She narrowed her eyes, excited by the rising fury rolling through his veins, and walked up to him with catlike movements. Already the taste of Cahal was making her crave death itself. She trailed the grip of her whip against his back, the itch flowing through her for the sight of his blood. “You know what you’re here for, don’t you?”

  His body tensed, and the rigid cording of his back flexed as he turned his head to glare at her. The midnight blue of his eyes turned black with rage.

  That was when she finally got a good look at his face. It was a bruised mess. His jaw was nearly twice its normal size. Blood already covered his chin and long gouges ran the length of both cheeks. She chortled, grabbing his chin in her hand and squeezed tight. He was a masterpiece of pain, but her guards had barely begun to scratch the surface of her blood thirst, she wanted to do so much more to him than this.

  “Such tough words,” she spat. “I’ll enjoy making you beg for mercy.”

  “You’ll have none from me,” he said low and menacing. He narrowed his eyes and his face twisted into a frightful mask of arrogance and fury. The look was enough to quell many, but not her. Not the goddess of battle and strife. The Morrigan fed off rage; she lived for it. She inhaled the heady scent of his wrath and gave him a hungry smile.

  “You’ve disappointed me, Cian.”

  His jaw hardened. “That was never my intent. She is meant to live. Do not harm the mortal.”

  She slapped him across the cheek. The power of the blow forced his head to crack against the wall. “How dare you make demands to me!”

  He studied her like a predator ready for the kill—silent and with an undercurrent of lethal power.

  In answer he spat by her foot. The sight of the crimson-streaked saliva had her barely suppressed bloodlust rising to the surface.

  “Oh, my death. That was most unwise.”

  The Morrigan stepped back and snapped the whip through the air. Its shrill sound was like the crack of thunder. Cian never flinched. She threw her head back and laughed. “You were always my best. So heartless, so perfect.”

  Then she struck him. The metal tips at the end of the cat-o’-nine-tails tore into him. Thick crimson spilled down his back.

  Cian’s fists clenched; his body went stiff. Tremors traveled the length of his legs. The Morrigan licked the blood that settled against her lip—its sweet, metallic taste only made her want more.

  His blood was the sweetest of all. It wasn’t just scent, it was memory. The memory of every soul he’d taken was within each drop. She relived it all through him and couldn’t contain the rushing need for more. He was death, life, and power, and she wanted it all.

  She walked up to him and laid her hand against his lacerations. He hissed and hung his head, and then, leaning toward his ear, she whispered, “Now imagine how much more the rest will hurt. You’ll never disobey me again, Cian. I vow it.”

  * * *

  Dagda glanced up as the door to his chamber cracked open with a loud boom. The Morrigan stood in the entranceway. Blood and gore covered her from head to toe.

  He stood and held out his hand. She walked toward him and dropped a gentle kiss against his cheek. “It is finished,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Now?”

  She eyed her clothing and sneered. “I’ll clean up before sending Frenzy to finish what Cian could not.”

  Dagda blinked.

  An explosion of magick took her breath. The aftershocks of so much power sped through her veins. She pulled out of his embrace and gazed at him. Her brows lowered. “Why have you sifted the strands of mortal time?”

  “To make the fight fair.”

  She cocked her head. “How very, very interesting. Whatever are you hiding from me, consort?”

  He raised a brow. His face remained impassive. “Why would you think I’d be hiding anything?”

  “You won’t win.”

  “Who said this was a contest?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t trust you.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckle. “Take your bath, Chaos. I have matters to attend to.”

  She eyed him and turned. “Whatever it is you have planned, Dagda…don’t.”

  His lips curved as he walked from the room.

  * * *

  Cian lay crumpled on the floor as spots danced before his eyes. A rush of vertigo had the room moving in circles. The burst of energy that had ripped into his back from the witch at the club paled in comparison to the madness of the queen.

  The door to the room opened, and a shadowy figure entered. Its movements were lithe, fragile. Like a delicate bloom on a stem. Not The Morrigan.

  He blinked. A gentle voice drifted toward him, and a soft hand touched his face. “Cian. It is me.”

  “Wistafa,” he croaked. Now recognizing the mass of riotous brown curls. “Leave before she catches you here.”

  She knelt and pulled his head into her lap, crooning softly. Instantly Cian became drowsy and closed his eyes. Wistafa was the great healer to the house of feathers of the royal court. Her scent of mint and sage wrapped him up in a comforting cocoon. Like a mother’s warm embrace.

  He took a deep breath, wanting to inhale more of the intoxicating aroma. Fire sizzled through his veins. He felt like the needles of a million scorpions had suddenly stabbed him, and every breath was agony. His eyes opened sharply.

  “I’ve come to help,” she whispered, her brown eyes twin pools of compassion. Her fingers massaged a circular pattern on his temples, distracting him for the pain. “Close your eyes and simply relax.”

  Cian gripped her wrist. “Why are you doing this? I’m a grim reaper. Death,” he stated with emphasis. Even the fae had always treated him with contempt and spite. A dark smudge to the beauty they worshiped. Power play with death, fine. But show any mercy or compassion, goddess forbid.

  She only smiled, a small curling at the corners of her mouth. “You are just a man. What you do is not who you are, Cian. I would have come had I not been commanded.”

  “Commanded? By whom?” he demanded
. Who could care?

  “Dagda.”

  He narrowed his eyes, instantly distrustful. What game were the gods playing at?

  “He said that you were to be healed and sent to the mortal woman immediately.”

  Was this a trial? It didn’t make sense. Why would Dagda want to help him?

  “Your eyes, Cian. Close them now. Or I’ll force them shut,” she said authoritatively.

  Normally her tone would incite Cian into a riot of anger, but her words possessed a lyrical, soothing quality that instantly calmed the beast within and stamped out the fury of resentment. She’d laid the full charm of her healing magick upon him. His response was immediate and instinctual.

  He closed his eyes.

  A warm heat spiraled from her fingertips throughout his body. It was a soothing balm healing the throb traveling his limbs. It felt like tiny fingers manipulating the ache in his joints, tendons, and muscle. The next breath he took was free of pain. He opened his eyes and saw he was healed. His flesh looked firm. Smooth. What would have taken him days on his own to mend had taken only seconds.

  He stood up and patted himself to make certain it was real and not some illusion. There was no pain. There were no lacerations. He was whole.

  Unaccustomed to kindness, he was unsure of what to say.

  “Thank…you,” he hissed, the words foreign on his tongue.

  Wistafa shook her head. “No thanks required, reaper. Find the woman. Dagda will come to you in a couple of days. Go now.”

  She stood and turned to leave.

  There were too many gaps. He hated being kept in the dark and knew something was amiss. If the god wanted him to go to the woman, why not come to Cian himself and demand it? The secrecy and subterfuge had him on edge, making him uneasy.

  “Is that it? Is there no more? Does The Morrigan know of this?” He gritted his teeth in frustration.

  She stopped but never turned. “If you don’t leave now, all will be lost. Find the woman.” Then she was gone, her soft scent the only clue that she’d ever been there.

  He marched from the room, dressed himself using his essence, and opened a portal between the here and there with a swipe of his hand.

  Curiosity, an emotion he’d buried long ago, rose to the forefront. What game were The Morrigan and Dagda playing, and why was he involved?

  He stepped through the portal. The witch’s lifeline beckoned. Already familiar with her spirit, he attuned himself to her. Perhaps it was as simple as finishing the task he’d been sent to accomplish in the first place. His gut clenched. Could he even do it? He’d tried once and failed.

  He glanced at his hand. It was flesh, not skeletal, a small comfort that only compounded his confusion. What was going on? Dagda and The Morrigan always had an agenda, but usually they worked on the same side. Having Dagda act so secretive made Cian troubled.

  The Morrigan had not stripped the flesh from his body because she planned to easily forgive in the next breath. Her anger and ability for revenge were legendary. Which meant everything Dagda was doing now was without The Morrigan’s knowledge. A fact that was not lost on him. Cian, whether he’d wanted to or not, had now become Dagda’s pawn. A game piece easily sacrificed for the greater good.

  When he stepped through the portal, he expected to arrive back at the gruesome scene he’d left. Instead he found himself peering at his witch through a shop window with the words WITCH’S BREW stenciled across the front.

  She looked healthy, full of vigor. Her hair was longer, hanging well past her lower back. A rosy flush encompassed her pale cheeks.

  The sight caused his heart to twist painfully against his chest.

  He frowned and shoved his hand through his hair. Who had sifted time? The gods rarely manipulated mortal time. The instances were rare, few and far between.

  All the scenarios he’d anticipated suddenly took a turn for the worse. Dagda’s conspiracy was greater than he’d at first imagined, and a black chill rushed down his spine.

  “What have they done?”

  Chapter 4

  Argh! If I have to make another effing love charm I’m gonna tear my hair out.” Eve eyed the dangling piece of clay with disdain.

  Tamryn snorted. “Don’t worry. In another hour we’ll be sipping on Gorilla Farts and man scouting. Life can’t get better than that.”

  Eve wrapped her hand around the charm and dragged it to her heart, almost as a protective shield. Not again. Her sisters were going to try and force the issue. She wasn’t ready. Period. End of story. Not wanting to wax on again about a subject she’d rather see dead and buried, Eve switched topics.

  “Why do humans insist on buying this charm? Money, protection, luck. Okay, those I can understand. But love? Don’t they know that’s not how love works? You can’t force it on someone.” She tried but couldn’t keep the hurt from creeping into her voice.

  Tamryn eyed her. Aware, Eve was sure, of her inner torment. For the moment, however, her sister didn’t pursue the matter and shrugged her slim shoulders instead. “Why do you care? I’m always up-front about this particular charm. If they insist on buying it anyway it’s their business.

  “Besides”—Tamryn yanked on the dangling leather chain in Eve’s hand—“we both know humans come to San Fran because this is horror central. Weres, vamps, and witches, living out in the open, unlike Podunk middle America, where some redneck jackasses still try to burn us at the stake.” She shuddered. “You know better than anyone that it’s us on display and not our wares. So no, I don’t feel bad at all taking their money. Tit for tat, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Touché.” Eve snapped her fingers with a grin.

  She then turned her attention back to the table, hoping the message was clear. Go away. Leave her alone. But her sister didn’t walk off. Eve’s palms grew increasingly sweat slicked, as she knew her sister was still behind her boring holes into her back. She closed her eyes. Please don’t do this, Tamryn.

  “So…”

  She groaned and turned, knowing no amount of ignoring her would get her to leave.

  Tamryn trailed her finger along the spine of a grimoire. “You coming tonight, or what? It’s time we reinstate our weekly get-together, don’t you think? Drinks, chips, and gossip. Fun, huh?” Tamryn wiggled her brows, using a different tactic to entice Eve. Thing was, she wasn’t ready to go back to the life she’d lived before Michael’s death.

  “No.” She set her mouth in a thin line.

  “Eve. C’mon.”

  “No. Okay.” She pushed away from the workbench, scattering several charms in the process. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”

  Tamryn huffed. “Because you’ve become a shell of your former self. Do you honestly believe for one minute that Michael would have wanted this?” She lifted a brow and laid a hand on her hip, her stance defiant.

  “That is not fair!” Eve jumped up, glaring daggers at her sister. “You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t even know what I’m going through,” she said, her voice breaking.

  Tamryn’s violet eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It’s not like I lost a brother-in-law. It’s not like I went through the pain of Mom’s death. Of course I wouldn’t understand, Eve.”

  Eve winced and glanced away.

  Tamryn blew out a heavy breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that…”

  Eve shook her head, holding out a restraining hand as the truth of the words sank deep into her heart. Her sister was right. Fact was, she knew she was being ridiculous, and it was hard to admit this—especially to herself—but what hurt most was the guilt. Guilt for surviving when Michael hadn’t. Guilt for actually wanting to go out and have fun again.

  Tamryn had never had anything but the best of intentions for her. Mentally, Eve knew hanging onto the past brought a lack of resolution. She’d loved Michael, and she had to believe that somewhere up there he knew and would understand that eventually she’d have to move on. Still, it was hard to think about making a fr
esh start.

  Just the idea of starting over, of having to reenter the hit-and-miss world of dating, made her heart stutter. Women her age were usually nice and settled, with two-point-two kids, the white picket fence, and all that jazz. Here she was, thirty and contemplating a life of spinsterhood, not because she was too old but because she was in a comfort zone she feared changing. Deep down she knew Michael would have been furious with her for mourning him these past two years. But that was love, and she’d loved him hard.

  She blew out a deep breath. He shouldn’t have died so young, and that was the irony of the situation. Michael had seemed like the man of steel. So strong, virile, and full of life. To have seen his life snuffed out by such a senseless act—the thought still made her twitch with anger.

  But she couldn’t keep doing this. It had to stop sooner or later, she admitted to herself with reluctance.

  With a sad smile she turned toward her sister and gave a weak nod. “You’re right. I’ve been selfish. You and Cel were there for me when everyone else left.” She pulled Tamryn into a quick hug. “I don’t want to go to the club tonight, but I’ll do it for you. Deal?”

  Tamryn grinned and ran a hand through her unruly red curls. “Good. For a second there I thought I was gonna have to get all kung fu on your ass.”

  They laughed.

  * * *

  Later that night Eve studied her wardrobe dispassionately. She hadn’t returned to Club X after Michael’s death.

  Breathe, Eve. She closed her eyes for a split second. You can do this. You have to, she repeated the mantra over and over.

  Not only would she do this, but she’d go all out. She stripped off her clothes, showered, and then returned to her closet.

  She grabbed a black chiffon skirt, one that hung snug at her hips and gently flared around her knees. She nibbled on her lip, studying her tops, finally deciding on a black-and-red off-the-shoulder corset. Grabbing the first pair of red stilettos she found, she sat down on the edge of her bed and slipped them on.