Death's Lover Page 4

  Done, she studied her reflection in the mirror.

  Her skin glowed from the scalding water and hard scrubbing she’d just subjected herself to. The deep gold of her eyes shimmered in the light. She hung her head.

  “Breathe. Just breathe,” she mumbled.

  She growled, decided she’d done about all the primping she was willing to do and before heading out the door, grabbed a trench coat in case of cooler weather tonight, then went to fetch Tamryn and Celeste.

  Stupid. Stupid. So freaking stupid.

  * * *

  Cian heard the shuffling of feet and high-pitched voices of females before he saw her. His dark witch. He’d followed her home from the shop, contemplating what to do, how to approach her, and then here she was. As if she’d stepped from his thoughts into reality. His gut churned with anxiety.

  To her it would seem as if two years had passed, but for him to see her hale and whole after the horror of seeing her body twisted and broken took his breath. The glimpse of her through the shop window did not compare to this moment.

  He was transfixed. She radiated an alluring mixture of power and sensuality. He sensed in her a great sadness that touched his heart, suddenly feeling a burning ache to hold her. Comfort her. He clenched his jaw, knowing what he felt was the effect of her magick flaring to life inside him.

  She and her sisters walked down the sidewalk. The blonde and redhead wore smiles. His witch did not.

  Her misery scorched him like a fiery brand. Cian remembered the sparkle in her golden eyes the first time he’d laid eyes on her.

  She shouldn’t feel this way. It’s all my fault.

  He followed at a discreet distance, silent as a thought. The sisters moved with purpose, threading a winding path through alleyways, around condemned buildings and stinking Dumpsters. The path was a familiar one to him.

  He watched as different sets of eyes studied the women. The furtive glances and faint odor of male lust riding the winds told him of their intent.

  But the women weren’t weak, and the men knew it. They crackled with power, like a burst of electricity from a live wire. Their ramrod shoulders and straight backs gave off a clear message: Screw with me at your own peril.

  One by one the sets of eyes left off, seeking easier prey.

  Cian’s lips quirked.

  The ladies stopped at the entrance of the club and knocked.

  A peephole slid open and a large brown eye peered out.

  “Password,” the gruff voice asked.

  “Asylum.”

  The large, wrought-iron door opened on silent hinges. Pale wisps of blue smoke escaped the club to curl around their ankles, creating an illusion of ethereal beings floating slowly inside.

  A tingle ran like quicksilver down Cian’s spine. And he knew without turning that another reaper was around. The hunt was on. It was small comfort to know that while the sisters were inside Club X, no harm could come to them.

  But how the hell am I supposed to keep them safe the rest of the time? Especially when The Morrigan is determined to have her?

  After a few seconds passed, he knocked on the door, spoke the password, and continued his pursuit. The pulsating rhythms of Danzig vibrated through his body. The loud music keyed him up, pumped him full of adrenaline. Made him want.

  Quickly he followed their scent up the stairwell, only slowing down when they were a few feet ahead. He stared at her backside. At the gentle sway of her hips and the wealth of black hair trailing down her back.

  Of course you’d want what you could never have.

  He clenched his hands into fists, climbing step after stone step.

  Cian had expected the sisters to heard toward the coven floor—the place where all practicing witches, wizards, and warlocks who preferred to keep to themselves partied—but was stunned when they bypassed it. Instead they headed for the fourth-floor door. The mixed flock.

  On this level only, the pack, clan, and coven put aside their differences and prejudices to party together.

  Many centuries past, the fae would have been included as part of the revelry. Now no fae were allowed save the reapers. Death was an essential part of life and it could happen anywhere, at any time. Supernatural laws and rules did not apply to the reapers.

  “Ah! My favorite sisters three.”

  The sisters turned at the sound of the melodious voice.

  Cian glanced at the source.

  “Lise,” his witch cried and rushed into the proprietor’s frail embrace.

  Madam Lise’s snow-white eyes roamed the witch’s face with unerring accuracy. She laid a liver-spotted hand against her heart. “Such sadness.”

  Cian shifted. Electric currents of Lise’s power pulsed through him. The woman was immortality personified. In her voice he heard not just words but an ancient knowledge of the beginning and the end.

  The mystery that was Lise teased his mind. She was more than the gods and goddesses. She was time, origin, everything. Somehow he knew when this world passed away and he was nothing, not even a memory, Lise would remain. She was the chosen one.

  It was a cold-shiver-down-the-spine type of thought.

  He was suddenly yanked from his reflections when he saw a white glow began to spread from between Lise’s fingers. Like a spiraling helix, they shot through his witch’s flesh. She radiated from the inside out. A dark-haired priestess caught within a silky, ivory web.

  The ground trembled. Glass bottles behind the bar shook and rattled, not from the music, which had gone suddenly quiet, but from the living force springing from Lise’s hand.

  He expected to see stunned looks upon the faces of those dancing. But there were no looks of shock. No one had even bothered to stop dancing. He knew then that the music hadn’t stopped, so much as Lise, himself, and the three sisters seemed to be within some capsule of time completely separate from the outside world.

  Now aware of it, he felt the cocoon’s embrace. It was warm, inviting. Meant for privacy more than anything. It rippled like the soft lapping of a stream against a bank.

  His witch grunted. An obsidian winding curl of smoke escaped her parted lips. Then as if someone had cut an invisible string holding her up, she slumped to the ground.

  He ran forward. Not thinking about what he meant to do, the need to comfort overruling his desire for stealth. All he wanted was to touch her. Hold her and keep her safe.

  The emotion was alarming and stopped him cold in his tracks. What the hell is wrong with me? He backed up, into the safety of shadow. Who would find comfort from death?

  The sisters helped his witch up. Her golden eyes were wide with shock.

  Lise gripped her shoulder. “I’ve healed the ache in your heart. The rest, my dear witch, will be up to you.” She turned her unnatural gaze to Cian.

  He took a sharp breath and heard the old woman’s voice in his head. Well met, death. Be ye welcome here.

  Cian gave a solemn nod. Chosen.

  “Come, sisters three.” Lise spread her arms wide. “I’ve saved you the best seats in the house.”

  With those words, the music that’d been blocked out because of the time capsule now filtered through once again, along with the sharp smells of bodies pressed close and alcohol-tainted breath. The scents were suddenly overpowering and cloying, seeming to stick to the roof of Cian’s mouth, and he grimaced at the stench.

  The women sat down in a corner booth next to the dance floor. All three heads joined together to form an odd circle of gold, black, and red. No doubt they were talking of the incident and what it had meant.

  There was nothing to do now but wait. So Cian walked over to the bar and sat. He dropped his stealth, nothing more than essence he’d draped himself in. He wouldn’t call it exactly going invisible, but unless someone looked in just the right spot they wouldn’t see him.

  “What’ll you have?” The bartender was cleaning a glass with a dishrag, staring at him, and waiting patiently for his answer.

  “Firewater,” he said.


  The bartender nodded, poured him a tumbler full of the green stuff, and slammed it down on the grainy wood. He hadn’t actually expected the mortal realm to serve drinks created in the lands of magick.

  His lips quirked as he brought the tumbler to his mouth and took a sip. It was just as he remembered it. Smoky, with a bitter hint of overripe cherries. It smoldered going down, making him feel like the flesh was being stripped off his throat.

  “Reaper.”

  The rumbling voice, that always made him think of a volcano ready to explode, could belong to none other than Bezel, demon of the lower night abyss. Cian had known Bezel for many centuries now, and though his kind rarely made friendly with someone not of their own caste, Bezel and he had developed a warped sort of bond through the years.

  Cian turned and stared into glowing lavender eyes. “Bezel.” He frowned. “What are you doing in the mortal realm?”

  The blond, trucker-cap-wearing demon raised a brow. A lascivious smirk was on his face as he hooked his thumb over his shoulder to the retreating figure of a man. “Been bound.”

  Cian stared at the pale, freckle-faced sorcerer cutting a path through bodies toward the bathroom.

  “Someone finally know your true name, demon?” Cian cocked his head. “Took me three centuries to learn it. Not the easiest name to find.”

  Bezel shrugged. “That overinflated bag of dog waste thinks he does. But he don’t and he won’t.” A deep Kentucky twang twisted the demon’s words.

  “You plan on telling him any time soon? Or are you going to let him discover that the way your last bindsmen have?”

  The demon raised a brow, a smug look on his face. “What do you think? Pass up a chance for a little blood sport later? No way. You know the drill, Cian. I lull them into a false sense of security. Then bam!” He slammed his fist down on the bar. “When they need me most I turn on them instead. Ha…” Bezel shook his head. “Nothing better, ’cept for maybe wratzling a greased-up pig. Now that’s fun right there.”

  “There” came out sounding more like “thur.”

  “A greased-up pig?” Cian chuckled. When the demon set his mind to a character, person, place, or thing, he played the role better than an Oscar nominee. “Playing the country boy this time, I see?”

  Bezel took a swig off the Corona bottle in his hand and burped. “Yeah. Been pretty fun. But I’m ’bout through with this one. He’s getting boring, thinks a little too highly of himself. Bastard. Thinking maybe I’ll twist his head clean off, or maybe fillet him down both sides.” He nodded, a pleased expression on his face. “What do you think?”

  Cian shook his head, an I-don’t-wanna-go-there look on his face. “Little too gruesome for me, demon. How about I just take care of the mess afterward?”

  Bezel gave a toothy grin.

  Cian took another sip of the firewater, his gaze searching out his witch. She was still sitting in the booth, watching as her sisters gyrated on the dance floor.

  It was as if time had been suspended. The thrum of music faded to an insignificant noise in the background. His only focus was on the dark witch. Watching her as she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and played with the silver bangles on her wrist.

  He was aware of several men staring in her direction with something other than just mere curiosity. There was hunger, raw and wild, glittering in their eyes. Hers was an exotic beauty rarely seen. He seethed with jealousy, wanting to break several necks for even daring to let their gaze linger for too long. He chugged the last of the fiery brew and scrubbed a tired hand down his face. He shouldn’t be jealous; he shouldn’t be anything. The witch did not belong to him, but something about the woman twisted him up on the inside and made him think stupid, crazy thoughts. Thoughts like: Mine. Mine. Mine. What the hell was happening to him?

  Bezel snapped his fingers, breaking Cian from his trance. The demon looked from Cian to his witch and back again. His lips curled into a slow smile.

  “The death of a man is a woman.” His lavender eyes glowed like amethyst flames in the darkness.

  Cian nodded and turned around, facing the bar once again. She was a topic he wasn’t willing to discuss, especially not with the demon. “So,” he said, switching subjects, “any of your bindsmen ever allowed to see your true form? I can’t imagine that anyone would bind you if they did.”

  “Bastard.” Bezel snorted, a smirk curling his lips. “But no”—he swallowed the last dregs in his bottle—“don’t want any of them ever learning too much about me. Knowledge is power, and I ain’t in a sharin’ mood.” He shrugged. “Simpler to just become what they want. Makes it easier to control them later on.”

  Cian’s brows drew together. “Then why disguise yourself as a corn-fed country boy?”

  Bezel gave him a deadpan stare.

  Then it clicked. “Ah. Of course.” He chuckled.

  That moment to the next was a blur as rough hands yanked on Cian’s shoulder, twisting him around. Fangs dripping with saliva and the rage-twisted face of a were greeted him. “We don’t tolerate fae around these parts.”

  Cian shouldered the hands off. “You have two seconds to get out of my face.”

  The were growled, drawing attention from the group surrounding the bar. “Or what?” His spit landed on the side of Cian’s face. Brown eyes turned black with the beginnings of going feral.

  Cian stood, his nose mere inches from the werepanther. The tension was as taut as a bowstring ready to snap.

  Hair sprouted from the were’s body, bones cracked and snapped, beginning to reform. The panther pressed a heavy paw against Cian’s throat, its claws tearing slowly through his flesh.

  Cian narrowed his eyes, his muscles tensing with the need to rip into the panther. But years had taught him patience. Anger made you sloppy, and he was waiting for the panther to screw up.

  The half man, half cat screamed as only a panther could. The were prepared to strike.

  Cian didn’t give him a chance. He struck first, grabbing the paw and crushing down. The sickening sound of tendon and bone breaking reverberated around them. The were screamed in agony and shifted back to human, falling to the ground in a writhing ball.

  Lise’s gaze was on him, heavy and assessing. Pressing in, making him feel claustrophobic. He turned to look at her. She glanced from him to the fallen were and back again.

  She snapped her fingers and the rolling body of the were disappeared.

  “Nothing to see here. Dance,” Lise ordered to the immobile throng still held spellbound by the threat of violence lingering in the air. Her words were a compulsion to obey. At once they all dispersed and returned to what they were doing.

  Bezel chortled. “Hell, man! Now that’s why I like you. Always guaranteed to see some action when you’re around. I promise if you ever bind me I’d probably let you live.” He slapped Cian on the back.

  His heart thudded painfully against his chest knowing how close he’d come in one night to oblivion, first from The Morrigan and then from Lise. Thankfully she’d been aware it’d been the were who’d begun the fight. With Lise, there were never any bodies to recover, a mystery he’d always wondered about. What happened to the souls she made disappear? Did they simply cease to exist or were they sent to some sort of purgatory even death couldn’t reach?

  “Dirty fae.” Bezel’s sorcerer appeared out of nowhere, wearing a mightier-than-thou sneer.

  Cian turned to look at the slender frame of Bezel’s bindsman. Any empathy Cian had once held for the sorcerer’s ultimate fate melted.

  “Come now, demon. I’ll not cavort with the likes of him.” He stamped off, heading toward the exit. “I’ll have to speak with Lise about this.”

  Bezel stared at the retreating figure of his bindsmen. “On second thought, Cian, you’ll probably be cleaning up my mess sooner than later.”

  Cian glanced at the exit as the sorcerer stepped through. But something else caught his eye.

  His raven-haired witch.

  Her brows were lowered, her li
ps parted, and she was projecting an intense feeling of confusion.

  Not good.

  Chapter 5

  Where have I seen him before? There was something oddly familiar about the man at the bar.

  Eve studied him, perplexed as to why she couldn’t seem to rip her gaze away.

  His hair was long. Longer than most men wore it, trailing to just below his shoulder blades. The soft blue lights illuminated the black-and-white strands, making them stand out in a bold relief of ebony and ice. It looked natural if only because he wore the look so well, which intrigued her more. What man had hair like that? Not normal.

  The man was a chiseled beauty. He went way beyond handsome. Sculpted cheekbones. Square-cut jaw. Long, strong nose tapering into a full, firm mouth.

  Just looking at him made her feel as if she’d bitten into decadence, and her body definitely noticed as hot shivers coursed down her spine. Her breathing increased by a notch.

  Like two magnets being drawn together, he finally looked her way. Mesmerizing eyes the color of sea frost held her enthralled.

  Those eyes.

  A thread of a memory tried to worm its way out.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t he?” Celeste grabbed her elbow.

  Startled, Eve jumped. “What? Oh…him?”

  Her sister’s full red lips curved. “Mmmhmm.”

  She could lie, but the drool on her face was a dead giveaway. “Yes.” Her stomach clenched.

  He wasn’t just gorgeous. He’d fully crossed over into the hot category.

  “He’s gotta be vamp. Too pretty.” Celeste smacked her lips. “Just my type. Too bad he’s looking at you like you’re dinner. I wouldn’t mind a nibble before bed. Yum.”

  Eve grinned. “You’re pathetic, Cel. There is such a thing as knowing too much.”

  “Pft.” Celeste rolled her eyes. “Please, you’re my sister. You’ve heard worse.”

  “Heard the panther he pounded call him a fae,” Eve said low. She knew all about them, but had never seen one for herself. Fae were said to be a dangerous seduction, leaving many a human to mourn lovers lost to their deaths.

  But beneath the mythic beauty of a fae also lay a deadly history. Eve hadn’t been around during the Great Wars, but she’d lost several ancestors to the treachery of the faerie.