Death's Lover (3 page)

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?”

A
rgh! 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 fresh 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.

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.