The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (2 page)

Even so, maybe
he ought to go rather than pass another long night with only his misery for company. Reaching his decision, albeit with serious misgivings, he leaned nearer the door. “Fine, I’ll come with. But I go stag or not at all. Are we clear on that?”

“Have it your way
.” Her tone was tart. “Just be ready to go by nine tonight.”

Relief laved his chest when he heard
her footsteps fading away down the hall. He lit another cigarette and returned to the window. The sun was up, but just barely, meaning he had the whole day yet to fill. What to do to pass the time? He glanced around the room. There was much more unpacking to do, but, all at once, he felt too restless to stay in. His gaze swept over the paneled walls, four-poster bed, and limestone fireplace before landing on the desk where the cards yet lay unturned.

They
called to him with the silent entreaty of unfinished business. Teeth scraping his lower lip, he wrestled with the choice. Perhaps he should turn them. Forewarned was forearmed, after all, and burying his head in the sand would change nothing. If he’d learned anything in his many years walking this earth, it was a man couldn’t defeat fate, however much he tried. Steeling his resolve with an intake of air, he strode to the desk, reclaimed his seat, and flipped the card of his past with a snap. His jaw clenched as he took in the stark image of a pierced heart afloat in a stormy sky.

The
Three of Swords.

He scoffed.
It was so much the story of his life he ought to have the card’s image tattooed across his chest.

Biting his lip, h
e turned the card of the here and now quickly. Seeing what he’d most feared tightened his chest. The central figure sat in profile upon a throne carved with angels and butterflies. She wore a white gown and a cloak decorated with clouds. More clouds gathered in the background, suggesting a storm was coming. The woman’s left hand reached out toward someone or something unseen in the distance. Her other hand gripped the up-thrust symbol of her suit.

The Queen of Swords
.

He’d drawn the card only once before: the morning he
’d met Catharine La Croix at a sidewalk cafe overlooking the Seine. To say her resemblance to Caitriona discomposed him was an understatement. He’d been floored by the likeness. He’d also been drawn to it like a sailor to a siren’s song. Unfortunately, he’d had no ship’s mast to rope himself to until the danger passed. Within a few weeks, they were deeply in love. He never suspected she might meet the same fate as her previous incarnation. Not until it was too late, anyway.

He’d done his best to protect her. After seeing
Gerard Fitzgerald, the dark wizard who’d cursed him, on the street outside her apartment on
Rue de Cherche Midi
, he’d kept a watchful eye on her. Being as stubborn as ever, she didn’t care for his vigil. One morning, she slipped out after he’d fallen asleep. He’d searched for her everywhere, out of his mind with worry. He’d had her blood, should have felt her, but he didn’t. That evening, he learned why.

Fitzgerald
had done it. Of that, he was certain. He just didn’t know why. Now, it looked as if history was about to repeat. And what could he do about it except tear out his hair, beat his fists on the walls, and cry to heaven, “Why? Why give her back to me only to take her again?”

Grief closed around his throat like a strangler’s hands. Coughing to ease its grip, he
overturned the card of his future. Surprise stung his heart when he saw The Fool. Squinting, he studied the image of a gaily-dressed youth whose open arms seemed to embrace the world. His right hand held a knapsack, his left, a single white rose. Nipping at his heels was a wee white dog. The Fool, fearing nothing, looked skyward with a dreamy expression as he strode toward the edge of a cliff.

Bewildered,
he shook his head. What could it mean? The Fool stood on the threshold. He was the protagonist of the tarot, the archetypal hero embarking on his quest, the soul starting its journey toward atonement. The Fool, in other words, was the polar opposite of the hopeless, faithless tightrope walker Fitzgerald’s dark curse had turned him into.

* * *

“Just so you know, vampires don’t kill, except by accident or to commit deliberate murder.”

The sound of his
deep, musical burr made Cat’s pulse race. It could only be
the good-looking Scot who’d been checking her out from the stacks for the past twenty minutes.

“
Sorry?”

She raised
her eyes from Anne Rice’s
Interview with the Vampire,
but didn’t turn around. There was no need. She’d already memorized every detail of his appearance while he skirted her gaze. Each time she’d tried to catch his eye, she found him conveniently reading the book in his hand. Each time she returned to her work, the prickling hairs on the back of her neck gave away his game. He also seemed familiar. Uncannily so, in fact. The proud stance, powerful build, and thick copper hair all struck a deep chord.

“The average adult has five liters of blood,” he
began to explain, “and the average stomach can hold fewer than two.” He paused to shift gears. “She’s also wrong about the coffins. And the impotence, though the book remains one of my favorites of the genre.”

“Mine
too.” She set the gold-clad novel on the table beside her laptop. “Do you go here? You seem familiar.”

“Nay. I went to Saint Andrew’s ages ago.”

She still didn’t turn. “Oh? Then what brings you to Wickenham University?”

“I just moved to the village
and heard the library here had an impressive collection of vampire literature. So, I thought I’d see for myself, to kill a wee bit of time. But it seems you’ve beaten me to it.”

“For my dissertation
.”

As she spoke the words, guilt squeezed her chest. H
er faculty contract hinged on her finishing her Ph.D. before the term ended. That gave her just three more weeks and she was hopelessly behind. Not that she was about to tell him that. If she did, he might leave.

She didn’t want that, and not just because he was handsome. Though handsome he
definitely was. Bodice-ripper, book-cover handsome. Straight nose with a slight flare at the end; strong jaw and jutting chin; prominent brow and cheekbones; intense, deep-set eyes that turned down ever so slightly at the edges; and an inviting mouth whose tucked lower lip made it at once boyish and sensual.

Apart from
the biker jacket and boots, he might have stepped out of one of the Highlander romances she read every chance she got, a longstanding guilty pleasure. For some inexplicable reason, she’d been attracted to all things Scottish for as long as she could remember.

He reached past her, selected
Dracula
off her stack of reference material, and began looking through it. Though she could hear the pages turning behind her, she couldn’t bring herself to turn around. If she met his eyes, she would melt.

“He was
lucky to have no reflection to forever fuck with his head.”

His voice brought her back, but only partly. “Who?”

“Count Dracula.”

“Oh
.” Embarrassment scorched her cheeks. “It was meant to symbolize he had no soul.”

“I ken that. But is it true, d
o you think?”

She knew t
he word “ken” meant “know” in Scots, but was otherwise confused by his question. Why did she find his closeness so discomposing? Men, even good-looking ones, rarely had this effect on her.

“Is what true?”

“That vampires have no souls. That they’re eternally damned.”

“I don’t believe in
—” She stopped, having second thoughts.

“
You don’t believe in what?”

She was going to say “eternal damnation” b
efore remembering it was never a good idea to discuss religion, especially
her
religion, with any but like-minded practitioners of the craft. Even then, it could lead to heated disagreements.

Turning at last, she met his eyes
. They were like topazes or whisky backlit by the sun. They also were so gnawingly familiar she wanted to scream. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to look away. I
mages of heather and bracken, of mist
y
hills
and
crystal lochs,
washed
over her like a dream.
Who was he? How did she know him?
What was he doing to her?

Unable to bear his riveting gaze any longer, she turned back to the table.
As she struggled to regain her composure, he reached past her to return
Dracula
to its place. Her eyes followed his hand, a sculptural marvel with long fingers tapering from furrowed knuckles to lustrous nails. Imagining those fingers traveling over her flesh in sensual ways, she shivered. He smelled good too. Natural and woodsy. She drank in the familiar scent. It was like coming home, though not to any home she’d known in this life.

“How do I know
you? Have we met before?”

“Oh, aye
.” His breath brushed her ear, making her shudder. “A couple of times.”

S
he spun in her chair, ready to press him for answers. He wasn’t there. The surprise she felt quickly gave way to disappointment. She glanced around, jaw clenched, chest tight, mind racing. Where’d he go? Who was he? How did they know each other?

One day soon, y
ou will meet a handsome stranger who will not seem like a stranger.

Her mind jumped back ten years
to the afternoon when, on a lark, she’d paid a gypsy to read her cards while shopping on Carnaby Street in London. The scene was as vivid as yesterday. The tiny incense-scented tent. The onyx-eyed woman sitting opposite. The cards spread out on the exotic scarf between them.

T
he Six of Cups, something from the past.

T
he Wheel of Fortune, destiny.

T
he Two of Cups, the joining of soul mates.

T
he Knight of Cups, a love interest.

Interpreted collectively, their meaning was undeniable. But if the Scot was
the familiar stranger the cards foretold, why had he taken off like that? It didn’t make any sense. Neither did anything else about their bizarre encounter. She shook her head. Best not to think on it. She couldn’t afford to squander the rest of her free period trying to make sense of the nonsensical.

Picking up
Interview,
she thumbed through it. Try as she might, her mind refused to reengage with her research. When her cell began to buzz on the table like machine-gun fire, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Snatching it up, she checked the caller ID. It was Avery Thatcher, the young woman with whom she shared one of the low-rent university cottages. Avery worked as an events coordinator in the alumni office. The housing office had paired them when Cat moved to the village to start her new position.

“
Hey, Cat. Fancy going down to the Cauldron later? I’ll wager you could use a night off.”

“G
osh, Avery. I don’t know. I really should stay in and keep working on my dissertation.”

There was more fueling
her reluctance than guilt over her unproductive afternoon. Whenever she went out with her friend, she felt invisible. Actually, she almost always felt invisible. Except when she was teaching, of course. The thought brought to mind her next class with a pang.

She shot an anxious glance toward the clock on the wall above the reference desk, cursing under her breath when she saw the time. Her next class started in less than fifteen minutes
and the lecture hall was all the way on the other end of campus. Luckily, Wickenham was a small university, so she still might make it if she hustled.

“But I can’t go down to the pub alone,” Avery complained
in her ear. “I’m really hoping Benedict O’Lyr will be there. I think he just might be my Mr. Right.”

Rolling her eyes,
Cat stuffed her laptop into her padded satchel. Avery had met Benedict, the new tenant of the manor house edging the village, a week ago at the wine shop on the High Street.

“So, will
you come?”

“Hang on a minute,
okay?”

“Okay.”

After setting her mobile on the table, Cat loaded her arms with books and toddled toward the reserve desk. She still wasn’t sure she was up to going out, but couldn’t shake the feeling
he
might be there. If she didn’t go, she might never know if he was indeed the familiar stranger foretold by the cards. Besides, she’d hit a wall on her research and a night off might be just the thing to get her scholarly juices flowing again.

Her gaze roamed over the reserve librarian,
a stern-looking woman with suspicious eyes and a helmet of dark hair. With a tight smile, she set the books on the desk. “I’m Professor Fingal. Can you hold these for me until tomorrow?”