by Karen Chance
“Karen Chance will enthrall you with her world of vampires, mages, and a fair maiden tough enough to kick their butts.”
—USA Today bestselling author Rebecca York
Praise for Claimed by Shadow
“A nonstop thrill ride from beginning to end, a wildly entertaining romp with a strong, likeable heroine. The story is fast-paced and barely lets up from the word go, lightened with plenty of wry humor and more than a dash of romance.
”—Rambles
“Ms. Chance is a master…. A series well worth getting hooked on.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A great writer of supernatural fantasy that is on a par with the works of Kim Harrison, Charlaine Harris, and Kelley Armstong.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A thoroughly engaging story that is as good as, if not better than, the first book, Claimed by Shadow should not be missed.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Magic aplenty populates this fast-moving, rather dark tale of power, corruption, double dealings, and painful attractions, as Cassie comes to grip with her new role in this follow-up to Touch the Dark. It is nice to see a strong, capable heroine taking charge with a kick-butt attitude while attempting to balance right and wrong in the face of impossible odds.”
—Monsters and Critics
“If you liked Touch the Dark, you’re going to like Claimed by Shadow.”
—SFRevu
Praise for Touch the Dark
“A grab-you-by-the-throat-and-suck-you-in sort of book, with a tough, smart heroine and sexy-scary vampires. I loved it—and I’m waiting anxiously for a sequel.”
—New York Times bestselling author Patricia Briggs
“Exciting and inventive.”
—Booklist
“Fast and heavy on the action, Touch the Dark packs a huge story…. A blend of fantasy and romance, it will satisfy readers of both genres.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A very promising start to a new series, and an exceptionally entertaining first novel.”
—Locus
“A really exciting book with great pacing and a huge cast of vivid characters. This is one of my favorite reads of the year.”
—Charlaine Harris, New York Times bestselling author of Definitely Dead
“A wonderfully entertaining romp with an engaging heroine. Here’s hoping there’s a sequel in the works!”
—Kelley Armstrong, New York Times bestselling author of Broken
“With Touch the Dark, Karen Chance takes her place along with Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, MaryJanice Davidson, and J. D. Robb to give us a strong woman who doesn’t wait to be rescued…. The action never stops…. Engrossing.”
—SFRevu
“[A] plucky heroine with special powers dealing with the supernatural…. Exciting and fun.”
—The Weekly Press (Philadelphia)
“A fast-paced, entertaining adventure in the best tradition of contemporary supernatural fiction…. I look forward to seeing what Karen Chance does next.”
—Emerald City
“A fast-paced action novel that never lets up…. Karen Chanceis one of the most original voices in paranormal fiction…. A ‘do not miss’ novel for fans of vampires or fans of great storytelling…compelling, heart-racing, [and] erotic.”
—Pink Heart Reviews
“Sexy vampires and interesting magical powers set up a thrilling and suspenseful environment in Touch the Dark…. Combines humor, action, and the paranormal into a scintillating story that will leave readers begging for more.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“An intensely captivating paranormal adventure with a capable heroine who possesses great strength and a wry sense of humor…. Karen Chance has created a wildly rich and seductive world sure to keep many readers hungry for more.”
—The Romance Reader’s Connection
ALSO BY KAREN CHANCE
Touch the Dark
Claimed by Shadow
Embrace the Night
KAREN CHANCE
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
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Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Karen Chance, 2008
All rights reserved
ISBN: 1-4362-0200-0
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
To Tracy Amber Lewis
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 1
A weeping angel shattered in a crack of gray dust, sending its wings flying off in two directions. It took a second for me to realize I wasn’t dead, and then I dove for the side of a nearby obelisk. I pressed flat against the ground, feeling the mud seeping into my already drenched clothes, while a barrage of shots struck sparks off the granite overhead. I was starting to suspect that this tomb raider thing might not be as much fun as I’d hoped.
Of course, that was pretty mu
ch the story of my life lately. A chain of events that might very charitably be classified as disasters had left me with the position of Pythia, the supernatural community’s chief seer. The Silver Circle, a group of light magic users, had expected one of their tame acolytes to inherit the office since it had happened that way for a few thousand years now. They’d been less than thrilled when the power went to me instead: Cassie Palmer, untrained clairvoyant, protégée of a vampire crime boss and known cohort of a renegade war mage.
Some people have no sense of irony.
The mages had expressed their displeasure by trying to send me off to explore the great mystery of what lies in store for us after death. Since I wasn’t that curious, I’d been attempting to stay under their radar. It didn’t look like I was doing so hot.
I decided to try for better cover beside a crypt, and was halfway there when something that felt like a sledgehammer knocked me to the ground. A bolt of lightning exploded against a nearby tree, causing the air to tingle and writhe with electricity and sending blue-white, hissing snakes scurrying over a tangle of exposed roots. It left the tree split in half, blackened along the center like old firewood, the air flooded with ozone and my skull hammering from the near miss. Above me, thunder rolled ominously across the sky, an appropriate bit of sound effects that I would have appreciated a lot more during a movie.
Speaking of irony, it would be really amusing if Mother Nature managed to kill me before the Circle got the chance. I crawled in the general direction of the crypt, temporarily night-blind and helpless, blinking away afterimages. At least I discovered why gun grips are ribbed: so when your palm is sweating with abject terror, you can still manage to clutch the thing.
My new 9mm didn’t fit my hand as well as my old one, but it was rapidly becoming a familiar weight. At first I’d decided it was okay to wear as long as I shot only at supernatural bad guys who were already shooting at me. Lately, I’d had to broaden that definition to anytime my life was in danger. I was currently leaning toward a slightly more comprehensive rule somewhere between proactive self-defense and the-bastards-had-it-coming, which, if I survived long enough, I intended to blame on my deranged partner rubbing off on me.
I found the crypt by running into it face-first, scraping a cheek on the pitted limestone exterior. I strained my ears, but there was no sign of my attackers. A hail of shots rattled against a nearby path, ricocheting off the cobblestones to fly away in all directions. Okay, no sign other than the fact that someone kept shooting at me.
I hugged the wall and told myself not to overreact and waste bullets. I’d already lobotomized a cupid after a gust of wind blew a few leaves across it, giving it a fleeting sense of movement—and that had been with the glow of an almost full moon to see by. It was worse now that the wind had blown dark clouds in, and the spatter of rain made it impossible to hear quiet footsteps.
The firing finally stopped, but my whole body continued to shake, to the point that I dropped the reserve clip I’d fumbled out of my pocket. The old one still had several rounds left, but I didn’t want to run out at a crucial moment. Another shot hit the cupid I’d decapitated, shaving off one of its little butt cheeks. I flinched and my foot kicked something that splashed into a nearby puddle. I got to my knees, searching around in the grass for it and trying to curse quietly.
“A little to the left.” I whirled, gun up, heart pounding. But the dark-haired man leaning against a moss-stained fountain didn’t look concerned. Maybe because he no longer had a body to worry about.
I relaxed slightly. Ghosts I could deal with; I’d even been expecting them. Père Lachaise isn’t Paris’ oldest cemetery, but it’s huge. I’d had to reinforce my shields to be able to see anything past the green glow of thousands of ghost trails, crisscrossing the landscape like a crazy spiderweb. It was the main reason I’d left my own ghostly helper behind. Billy Joe could be a pain, but I really didn’t want him serving as a midnight snack for a bunch of hungry ghosts.
“Thanks.”
“You’re American.”
“Uh, yeah.” A bullet pinged against an iron railing nearby and I flinched. “How’d you know?”
“My dear.” He looked pointedly at my mud-spattered jeans, once-white tennis shoes and soaked gray T-shirt. The last had been an impulse buy a few days ago, something to wear to target practice to remind my exacting coach that I was still a beginner at this. Its quip, “I don’t have a license to kill. I have a learner’s permit,” was starting to look really ironic now.
Lara Croft would have worn something a lot less mud-covered, and she would have had her hair in a sexy style that still kept it out of her face. My own curly mop was at the stage where it was too long to stay out of the way and too short to keep in a ponytail. As a result, I had wet blond strands falling into my eyes and clinging to my cheeks, adding to the overall lack of cool.
“When good Americans die, they go to Paris,” the ghost said, after taking a drag on a small cigarette. “But you’re not dead. I suppose the question must be, are you good?”
My hand finally closed over the clip, and I slammed it into place. I surreptitiously looked him over, wondering what answer was likely to get me some help. I took in the long velvet jacket, the silk cravat and the lazy smile. “Depends who you ask.”
“Prevarication, how divine! I always did get along better with sinners.”
“Then maybe you can tell me how many people are out there?”
Another ghost drifted up, wearing only a pair of low-rise blue jeans. He looked vaguely familiar, with shoulder-length brown hair, classic features and a slightly petulant pout. “About a dozen. They just shot up my ugly-ass memorial.”
The older ghost sniffed. “Your legions of fans will doubtless have you another inside a week—”
“Can I help it if I’m popular?”
“—and will then proceed to vandalize it and everything in the vicinity.”
“Hey, be cool.”
The older ghost bristled. “Don’t talk to me about cool, you preposterous pretender! I was cool! I was the epitome of cool! For all intents and purposes, I invented cool!”
“Can you two keep it down?” I asked a little shrilly. Sweat trickled down one side of my temple and into my eye, burning. I blinked it away and watched a few shadows slink closer. They existed only at the edge of my vision, and seemed to disappear whenever I looked directly at them. Then a spell exploded overhead, lighting up the area like a flare and giving me a clear view. Unfortunately, it did the same for my attackers. The Gothic arch above my head immediately rang with shots, causing bits of stonework to crumble on top of me as I ducked inside.
“This is ridiculous! You people are worse than the madmen Kardec attracts.” The ghosts had followed me in. Of course. “Mystic, ha! The man never even rose, yet there’s always someone praying or chanting or draping him with flowers—”
“He believed in reincarnation, man. Maybe he came back.”
I fought my way out of a large cobweb, and managed not to slip on the stone tiles, which were slick with rain and decaying leaves. “Shut up!” I whispered viciously.
The older ghost sniffed. “At least the mystics aren’t rude.”
I squinted down at the vague squiggles that were supposed to be a map and tried to ignore him. It might have been easier if I wasn’t soaking wet and filthy with a pounding headache. I really, really wanted to get out of here. But, thanks to a certain devious master vampire, that wasn’t an option.
I was prowling around a cemetery in the middle of the night, dodging guard dogs, lightning bolts and crazed war mages, because of a spell known as a geis. The vamp in question, Mircea, had had it placed on me years ago, without bothering to get my permission or even remembering to mention that he’d done it. Master vamps are like that, but in this case, there might have been more than the usual arrogance behind his forgetfulness.
On the one hand, the spell provided me protection growing up—it marked me as his, meaning that no sane vampire would touch
me with a ten-foot pole. On the other, it was designed to ensure loyalty to a single person: exclusive, complete and utter loyalty. Now that we were both adults, the spell wanted to bind Mircea and me together forever, and it didn’t appreciate my noncooperation. That was a problem, since people have been known to go mad from this thing, even committing suicide rather than live with the constant, gnawing ache that was just one of the spell’s tricks when thwarted. But sitting back and enjoying the ride wasn’t an option, either.
If the bond ever fully formed, our lives would be run by the dominant partner—which I had no doubt would be Mircea—leaving me stuck as his eager little slave. And since he was a member in good standing of the Vampire Senate, the governing body of all North American vampires, I would doubtless end up running their errands, too. The thought of what some of those requests might be was enough to put me in a cold sweat. It was what the Circle feared—the Pythia under the control of the vamps. And while I wasn’t in favor of their method of preventing it, I could grudgingly concede the point: it would be a disaster.
Becoming Pythia had made me a target for anybody in the supernatural community who was attracted to power—in other words, pretty much everyone—but it had bought me some time as far as the spell was concerned. How much, I didn’t know. Meaning that I really needed that counterspell. And rumor was, the only grimoire that contained a copy was buried somewhere around here.
Of course, it would help if I could read the damn map. I squinted at it, but the only illumination was moonlight filtered through the remains of once beautiful stained-glass windows. Half of a seated Madonna looked out onto a charcoal gray sky, with the occasional flash of lightning outlining layered clouds. I had a flashlight, but turning it on would only make me that much better of a—