The Nymph's Curse: The Collection (50 page)
She smiled her best smile, even though her heart was breaking. “Dane,” she said as she dropped her hands to the box and forced it closed. “Thank you for your generous offer, but you and I … We can’t — ”
“Can’t what?” Natalie interrupted. “Are you crazy? Marry him!”
Aura blinked as she tried desperately to focus on her sister’s face and not the world that spun around her. “Nat, you know the curse. I can’t do that. I love him too much.”
Natalie’s laugh flew through the room like a perky yellow canary as she reached into the pocket of her jeans. “I told you I had a surprise!” She pulled out her hand and uncurled her fingers. Sitting in the middle of her palm was a small blue crystal-like stone.
“A rock is your surprise?” Aura asked, utterly confused.
“Don’t you remember?” Natalie rolled her eyes. “Katarina Homeros … Yes?”
Aura nodded, recalling the murdered woman from Crete. “What about her?”
Natalie stepped over and slipped the sky-colored stone beneath the black velvet box in Dane’s quaking hand. “Do you remember what she did?”
Aura paused as she recalled the history of their kind — the Goddess Epione’s ill-fated run-in with Zeus and Katarina’s role in hiding her healing staff … The staff that Katarina had broken.
“It isn’t?” Aura stared down at the chip of stone in Dane’s hand.
Natalie excitedly skipped from one foot to another, like a prancing horse. “It is! It’s a piece of Epione’s staff. Katarina kept talking about her and Ariadne … and just before she died she entrusted me with it.”
Aura stood in stunned silence, her fingers still touching Dane’s warm, open hand. They could have one another. They could have love. They could escape the curse.
“What about you and Ryan?” Aura asked, trying to control her heart from exploding in her chest.
Natalie smiled guiltily and pointed toward Ryan. “Show her.”
Ryan stuck out his hand and held out a small blue stone that matched Dane’s.
“I broke it in half. We can both have what we’ve always wanted … ” Natalie wiggled with visible joy.
Dane looked at Aura with a look of confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Our kind was created by Epione, the goddess of soothing pain and healing. She’s why we can heal ourselves. She had a staff.” Aura’s fingers traced the blue stone in his hand. “It was broken, but the pieces still hold the power of the staff. Those who hold it cannot be killed. As long as you and Ryan keep this stone you will not die.”
He stroked her fingers with his thumb and smiled up at her. “You’re saying we can be together forever?”
She nodded wildly. Aura couldn’t speak as the tears of relief and joy flooded from her.
“Then will you please marry me?”
Dropping to her knees, Aura opened the black velvet box. The light danced over the surface of the beautiful solitary diamond that rested in the center of the perfect gold band.
“Dane … We can … I do … I will.”
She’d always thought she was free, yet at that moment, as Dane slipped the ring upon her finger, she knew the truth — she’d never been truly free until now. For the first time in her immortal life she was free to love.
Danica Winters is a bestselling author who is known for writing award-winning books that grip readers with their ability to drive emotion through suspense and often a touch of magic. When she’s not working, she can be found in the wilds of Montana testing her patience while she tries to understand the allure of various crafts (quilting, pottery, and painting are not her thing). She always believes the cup is neither half full nor half empty, but it better be filled with wine.
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Book 3 of the Nymph Series
Danica Winters
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2013 by Danica Winters
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6547-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6547-2
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6548-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6548-9
Cover art © 123rf.com
To Herbie —
Thank you for being so gracious, wonderful, kind, and loving.
I know it’s not always easy to be married to a woman who has her mind in an imaginary world.
Acknowledgments
To me there is nothing better than getting a letter from a fan telling me how much they’ve enjoyed my work. To all those wonderful fans out there who take the time from their busy lives to read and enjoy my books — Thank you. Your support and love is what keeps me writing on those days that the words are a struggle.
I hope that if you are in search of escape, or a break from the stresses of the real world, you can find what you need within the pages of my books.
I must also extend my thanks to my many author friends who take their time and energy to work with me in making my books the best they can possibly be. A special thank you to Casey Dawes, Rionna Morgan, Clare Woods, Pam Morris, John Zunski, Nancy and Parris Ja Young, Brooke Barnett, Kristi Fitzgerald, Heather Somerlad, Chris Karlsen, Jennifer Conner, Margret Best, and Melanie Calahan.
I would like to give a special thanks to my family, Herb, Penny, Bridget, and Gavin. Thank you for understanding that sometimes I have to sacrifice our time to follow the dream of writing.
Thank you to my lovely agent, Amanda Luedeke. You always work your tail off. Thank you for your constant support, back and forth emails, and phone calls. Above all, thank you for being a person I can trust.
And thanks couldn’t be complete without thanking my editors: Jess Verdi, Julie Sturgeon, and Tara Gelsomino. Thank you for your hard work in bringing my projects to life.
The chapel of the funeral home was filled with familiar faces, each one drawn into a somber expression as they wandered past Harper Cygnini’s sister’s casket. A blonde nymph laid a single crystal swan inside the box, carefully placing the bird by the hundreds of others. The bird sat with its wings touching those of the one next to it, looking as if they would come alive and fly Jenna to the realm of the gods.
Harper stood at the head of the casket and shook hands as people passed by, never looking her in the eyes. There were no words to express the sadness that filled the room. This didn’t happen. Nymphs rarely died.
She dabbed at her stinging eyes. She had cried so much in the last week it came as a shock to her there were any tears left to be shed. Her heart wasn’t merely broken — no, the pain ran much deeper — it was almost as if she had died as well. Maybe she should have — the gods knew she deserved to be struck down. If she had just been more involved with her sister, if she had paid more attention, perhaps this would have never happened. She could have stopped her sister from being kidnapped. She would have noticed that Jenna had been missing. Instead Harper had merely gotten the call that Jenna’s body had been found frozen in a snow bank on some mountain.
The only comfort she could find was that the men responsible had been incarcerated and awaited trial in Montana. They would pay for their atrocious crimes.
The only man in the room, Beau Morris, sat next to his fiancée, Ariadne Papadakis, the leader of the Sisterhood of Epione. Ariadne, noticing Harper’s gaze, dipped her head in a humble tribute to Jenna. Harper recognized a few of the other women within the room as mustang, snake, and swan-shifters. It was easy to tell them from the non-supernatural attendees as, even in mourning, most nymphs were perfectly beautiful — unscathed by time and the ravages of living.
The same couldn’t be said of Harper, but she didn’t care. She glanced down at her black dress. She couldn’t remember putting it on or doing her hair, but what did it matter? Even as a demigod life was short and filled with pain. What difference did her appearance really make — it was like so many other unimportant things that both humans and nymphs seemed to deem worthwhile. She couldn’t strike the impious thought that life was only some god’s sick joke — they merely sat up in the heavens playing around with everyone’s lives, striking down those who displeased them and testing to see how much pain those that remained could withstand.
A hand touched her shoulder, making her jerk to attention.
“Harper?” a redheaded woman asked. She was beautiful and clearly a nymph, but she didn’t have the same youthful, healthy glow of the others that filled the room. Instead her face was thin and her eyes tired.
“Yes. Thank you for coming to show your respect,” she answered robotically as she readied herself for more well-deserved but undesired condolences.
“I’m Carey Jackson, a friend … I mean I
was
a friend of your sister.”
The words pierced Harper’s armor and drove straight to her heart. The tears stung her tired eyes. She could only nod, or any control she had would be lost.
Carey dropped her hand from Harper’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to have to do this to you, but your sister was my landlord and, well, she promised she would help me. And now I don’t have anyone to turn to, except you.”
Harper looked around, checking to see if what she was hearing was really happening here, at her sister’s funeral. Some of the pain she had been feeling dissipated and was replaced by red-hot anger. “You can’t be serious. You didn’t come here to ask for a favor. You didn’t come to this place … and this time … and want to
use
my sister’s death to your advantage. No one can be that callous.”
The redhead stepped back from the onslaught of verbal strikes. “I’m … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just need help. You don’t understand.”
Harper’s gaze dropped to Jenna. Her makeup was perfectly applied and her pale face unmoving, as if she had merely fallen asleep. Her brunette hair haloed around her and, even though she lay there in the white metal box, it was still hard to believe she was really gone.
Carey reached into her purse and pulled out a picture. “I’m looking for this man. I need to find him, it’s important. Please.”
Harper didn’t know what to say. She knew her anger toward the woman was based mostly in her own grief. The redhead needed help, even if she had made a mistake in approaching her here on this day.
Carey offered her the picture. Harper looked down at the image — the man was muscular and tan, almost the color of fresh honey. His copper-tinted brown hair framed his face and accentuated his stubble-covered jaw. He was laughing at some secret joke that had been lost in time and only his smile was preserved. She flipped over the picture and scrawled across the back was the name Chance Landon.
