Wicked Omens (Cursed Coven Book 5)

by Patricia D. Eddy

  “Please...”

  “I wish I could help, but I have to get somewhere far away from here before I hurt people. That bolt of magic? That was nothing.”

  “Find the intruder!” a woman shrieked into the night, her words carrying over all of the screams around them. “Find the vial!”

  The intruder. Him. Torture. Imprisonment. Death. Maddox barely managed to grunt what he feared would be his last free words in his long, supposedly immortal life.

  “Left…jacket pocket. They’ll destroy me…for taking it. Hide it, at least.”

  “This is a terrible idea,” the man said as he reached into Maddox’s pocket. “Fuck.” Jerking his hand back, he stared at the blood coating his fingers and the broken vial of celestial sand, a few grains of which landed on Maddox’s chest and infused him with a subtle warmth, turning the complete agony of his injuries into a more manageable torment.

  Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, his potential savior wrapped the vial tightly and tucked it away. “I am going to regret this. What’s your name, angel?”

  “Maddox.” The word escaped so quietly, it was only a whisper, and darkness encroached around the edges of his vision.

  “Killian. Killian Wade. If my magic kills you, Maddox, put in a good word for me. I do not fancy spending eternity in Hell.”

  As Killian slid his arm behind Mad’s back, the agony consumed him, every breath more painful than the last, and once he found himself cradled against his rescuer’s chest, he let go, falling into the void of unconsciousness—or death—thinking how good Killian smelled, and how he wished he could stay with him.

  Chapter Four

  Killian

  A fucking angel? The man in his arms barely made a sound as Killian ducked down an alley on the way back to the Monarch Hotel. He’d saddled himself with an angel. And worse yet, one who apparently wasn’t as immortal as Killian had always thought they would be. The man’s hands were scraped and bleeding, one of his wings was bent, and his body shuddered with every breath.

  The line of fire currently consuming Killian’s chest magnified, curling upwards towards his neck. What in the bloody hell had the curse done to him besides take away his most precious possession and leave him a danger to everyone. He groaned as he tightened his hold on Maddox. If he wasn’t careful, he’d drop the angel, and he didn’t know how much more Maddox could take.

  Just before he burst out onto Bourbon Street, Killian peered around the corner. Shite. There had to be two hundred people between him and his hotel. Two hundred people who’d see him carrying a bloody man with breathtaking white wings folded against his back. Couldn’t angels hide the damn things?

  Well, it was Samhain. The wings probably wouldn’t get a second glance. The blood, however…

  “If I blow a hole in the eastern seaboard,” he said to Maddox quietly, “I’m blaming you.” The last time he’d tried to use any sort of magic, he’d fried his fingers to a crisp. And now, without his cuff, he had no way to control his power.

  His head still ached from the curse, and he could feel the blood from his ears drying on his neck. Killian closed his eyes, his back pressed to the wall of a squat building. The magic started as a spark inside him, warming, growing, until it was a living, breathing energy fighting to be free.

  “Mark this place and stop its time. Fleet of foot and smooth of tongue, let us pass unseen among.”

  The sounds of Bourbon Street faded into silence, and when Killian risked a glance, every single living thing—man, woman, child, dog, and even mosquito—had frozen in place. It was the first spell he’d tried in years that hadn’t destroyed everything around him.

  Only pausing for a moment to wonder why he’d gotten so lucky, Killian took off at a slow jog—all he could manage with the solidly build angel in his arms—and wove among the frozen people, ducking and twisting, until he came to the hotel. Pushing against the door with his back, he almost fell into the lobby, but even here, everyone was completely still.

  Not until he reached Room 13 did he release the spell, and the after-effects hit him like a sledge hammer. He barely got Maddox to the bed before Killian dropped to his knees, grabbing his head with a mournful, inhuman howl.

  Clawing his way to the window, he parted the curtains. Out on Bourbon Street, people continued to celebrate Samhain, and Killian fell back down with a choking sob. He’d done it. Cast a spell, released it, and hadn’t killed anyone. Thank the Divine.

  From the bed, Maddox coughed weakly, and Killian got to his knees, fighting off the dizziness to crawl back to the bed.

  Was this why he’d been summoned to New Orleans? To be hit by this blasted curse and get himself entangled with an angel? He did not know who’d cast the spell or why, but the words were burned into his brain.

  “Betrayers! Gather close and hear.

  “I damn you to your darkest fear.

  “I bind you to dread’s cold embrace.

  “Until your truth you boldly face.”

  Killian hadn’t betrayed anyone. Except for Oliver. Fuck. If the curse was going to punish him for that crime, it might as well kill him now. Except for the angel bleeding on his bed. Killian pulled himself out of his own pity party and stared at Maddox. His skin was ruddy, a layer of stubble darkening his jaw and cheeks under the blood that had dried on his temple.

  Black hair, thick and wavy, had felt impossibly soft as Killian had tucked Maddox’s head under his chin while carrying him. And the man—was he a man?—was muscular and compact. Like a fighter.

  As he stared, the angel stirred and forced his eyes open. “Help…me,” Maddox whispered. “Killian?”

  “I’m right here, mate.” Sliding a hip onto the bed, Killian rested his hand on Maddox’s shoulder. A burst of warmth flowed through him, and across his chest, his burns flared. “Fuck,” he muttered as he used his other hand to loosen his tie. His abdomen throbbed with each breath, and now that he wasn’t in the throes of an adrenaline spike, all of his injuries started to make themselves known as well.

  Maddox’s cheeks reddened, then paled dramatically as he tried to shift on the bed. “Have…to set my…wing. My arm. Before they heal badly.”

  “Will you be all right for five minutes?” If he didn’t do something about the burning in his chest and the slice from the shattered champagne flute, he wouldn’t be any good to anyone—especially Maddox. And the man seemed to be in complete agony.

  Maddox’s lips moved, but Killian couldn’t make out his response. Leaning closer, he caught Maddox’s scent. Something clean and pure and very male. Granite and leather and the finest tobacco. “I didn’t hear you, Maddox.”

  “Think so.”

  Pushing to his feet with a groan, Killian stumbled into the suite’s bath and tore his shirt open. “Bloody hell.” Blazing across his chest, almost like a tattoo, were several curved lines etched into his skin. On his left side, one stretched from his sternum, over his pectoral muscle, almost to his collarbone. Several others looked almost like half-moons running directly under the long curve. On the right, dark triangles overlapped. Each mark glowed red around the edges, like he’d been branded with a hot poker.

  As he stared, another black dot seared itself into his flesh, and he bit down on one of the hotel towels to stop from crying out. No more. Give me ten minutes. For Maddox.

  His bargain with the Divine must have worked, because the pain faded, and the new dot didn’t grow or change shape.

  His dress shirt fell to the floor, and he pressed his fingers to the deep gash just below his ribs. Blood still dripped from the wound, and he rummaged around in the toiletry bag someone had been kind enough to fill for him until he found gauze, medical tape, and a tube of antibiotic ointment.

  “Convenient, that,” he said to his reflection in the mirror. “And definitely not standard issue.”

  Unwilling to even touch the new brand, he cleaned the gash with an alcohol-soaked pad, hissing at the pain, slathered it with ointment, and wrapped it tightly. Then, he gather
ed up all of the supplies—including a suture kit—filled a glass of water, and headed back to Maddox.

  Maddox

  He had to be seeing things. The gorgeous man heading towards him had dark, angry lines tattooed on his chest, and they seemed to glow with each step. Killian’s six-pack ended in a deep v that disappeared beneath his black pants, and a patch of brilliant white gauze on his side was tinged with red.

  “You’re hurt.” Maddox forced the words through gritted teeth, reaching his one good arm up to brush his fingers against Killian’s side.

  “I’ll live. Will you?” Killian’s blue-grey eyes softened as he stared down at Maddox. “I’ll help you. But which, err, wing is broken?”

  “My left. Same arm. A few ribs. Collarbone, I think.” Maddox was so thirsty, so weak, and he didn’t think he could stay conscious much longer. But he didn’t want to stop staring at Killian. There was something about the man that called to him, and it wasn’t just that he was hot as fuck.

  Killian slid his arm behind Maddox, and they were so close, the man’s warmth enveloped him. It was…comforting. Something he could hold on to…for at least a short while. Until Killian lifted him, and his broken arm and wing flopped helplessly to his side, sending pure, unadulterated torment shooting through his entire body.

  “Keep it down, mate,” Killian said sharply as he eased Maddox against his chest and slid behind him to rest his back against the headboard. “We’re not the only guests in this hotel.”

  Had he screamed? His throat hurt like he’d screamed, but he couldn’t remember. He must have. Letting his head rest on Killian’s shoulder, Maddox tried to breathe through his misery until the cool edge of a glass pressed to his lips.

  “Drink. Slowly.” After three sips, Maddox felt marginally better, and Killian set the glass down. “I know nothing of setting bones. Or of…angels. I thought your kind were immortal.”

  “S’posed to be.” Maddox was so tired, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. “Even on earth. Should have…healed by now. Ever since the mansion…”

  “Bloody hell. The curse hit you too. Did you see green smoke? Before everything went sideways?”

  “Smoke. Yes,” Maddox whispered. “Couldn’t move.”

  “That vial. You stole it from Magnolia House, didn’t you?” Despite his words, Killian’s tone hadn’t changed. If anything, it had gentled, and Maddox didn’t want to lie to this man. The intense urge to tell him everything didn’t make sense, but nor could he dismiss it.

  “Yes. I was on the stairs. Everything,” he shuddered, and Killian’s arm tightened across his chest, “stopped. I couldn’t breathe.” Maddox groaned and stared down at his broken arm, bent oddly at his side. “Like I was…frozen. And then, darkness. I don’t know how I got out. Didn’t see anything until…the car.”

  “Someone at the witches’ ball cursed the lot of us,” Killian said quietly. “I can’t stay long here, Maddox. I’m a danger to you. Help me figure out what to do about your injuries, and then you can have the room. It’s paid up for two more days. But if I don’t get far away from people soon, even your celestial strength won’t save you.”

  Maddox fought through the pain, almost passing out more than once as Killian removed his white shirt. But as soon as the bare skin of his back and his wings rested against Killian’s chest, he started to feel better. The contact settled him. Eased his fears over what Azrael would say when he found out the vial had broken. He had to ask Killian to give it back to him.

  “All right. Bite down, Maddox.” Killian folded his belt in half and eased it between Maddox’s teeth. “This is going to hurt.”

  By the time Killian had bound his arm tightly, set his wing using one of the pillow cases torn into strips, and cleaned the various scrapes and scratches on his hands and face, Maddox didn’t know which way was up. He just wanted Killian’s arms around him again.

  “Stay,” he whispered when Killian covered him with a blanket. Maddox threaded his fingers with his rescuer’s and held on. “Please. Don’t leave.”

  Killian’s response was lost as sleep wrapped Maddox in a warm embrace, but he thought he felt the man squeeze his hand, and that brought him a measure of peace.

  Chapter Five

  Killian

  He should have left. But the angel’s hand on his brought about such an intense wave of connection and desire, he couldn’t walk away. Instead, he sat next to Maddox for hours. Every time he tried to let go, something stopped him.

  His mind raced. Had he been summoned to New Orleans specifically to be cursed? From the other witches running around dazed, all bleeding from their ears, noses, and some even their eyes, the curse had hit the lot of them. If Maddox had been affected too, what about all the other supernatural creatures present tonight?

  The woman who’d uttered those vile words…he’d recognized her voice. Somewhere deep in his memories. But for all his efforts, he could not place it now. Pulling out his wallet, he extracted the only photo he had left of Oliver. Of the two of them together. They’d been almost inseparable since birth, and when Oliver had run afoul of a vampire and had been turned, only Killian’s sleeping schedule changed. He started staying up until all hours so he and Oliver could spend time together. Until that terrible moonless night when Killian had tried to protect his closest friend, the man he’d shared his first kiss with, the man he’d been about to take as a lover, from a werewolf with a grudge and a silver dagger.

  Killian’s eyes burned as the memories assaulted him. Oliver’s last seconds of existence. The look of betrayal in his eyes. The sorrow. How Killian had tried to save him. Pulled him off the fence and used a healing spell, only to have that magic burn away what remained of his would-be-lover’s heart rather than healing it.

  And for ten years, Killian hadn’t used his magic unless he was alone at his estate. Even then, he only tried when Tiny managed to goad him into it. And now, he was unprotected. As was Maddox.

  Eventually, he managed to extricate his fingers from Maddox’s grip and curled up in the wing-back chair in the corner of the suite, a blanket draped over his bare chest, watching the man sleep. There was a vulnerability about the angel that tugged at Killian’s soul, and despite the magic that threatened to burst from his fingertips every time he took a deep breath, he couldn’t leave, no matter how much he wanted to.

  You only need to ensure he makes it through the night. Once the sun rises, get the fuck out, find Delphine, and figure out why the hell she summoned you here.

  He owed the angel nothing. So why then, was he so drawn to the man? On the table next to him, the broken vial with a scant tablespoon of sparkling sand drew his focus. Maddox had been acutely afraid of someone finding it, of the witches knowing he’d taken it. Yet he trusted Killian?

  Gingerly lifting the vessel, he turned it around and around, sniffed it, and frowned. What the hell was it? And why would the New Orleans coven want it?

  From the bed, Maddox groaned, and Killian sat up a little straighter, his back protesting the odd positions he’d contorted himself into all night at the angel’s side.

  “Maddox?” Killian said softly. If the man wasn’t fully awake, he didn’t want to startle him. In fact, he almost wished Maddox would sleep another day…or two…just so Killian wouldn’t have to leave him.

  Get over yourself. He’s an angel. And you’re…probably going to Hell.

  “Where am I?” Maddox asked as he pushed up on an elbow, winced, and fell back against the pillows again. “Who…?”

  “Killian. You’re in my bed.” He immediately regretted the statement when Maddox’s cheeks flushed a deep pink. “Not like that. You were hit by a car. Remember?”

  “Oh, fuck.” Maddox pulled the blanket up higher, tucking it under his good arm.

  “I did not expect an angel to swear.” Killian limped over to the bed and eased himself down. The wound to his side still throbbed, but at least the new marks across his chest were no longer causing him agony with each beat of his hear
t. “Here.” Holding a glass of water to Maddox’s full lips, Killian willed his dick to calm the fuck down. An angel was the last kind of man Killian should want. Especially now.

  “I’m only half-angel.” Maddox used his good arm to angle himself higher, hissed out a breath, and then grabbed onto Killian. The bolt of electricity that arced between the two shocked them both, but Maddox didn’t let go.

  “Take it easy.” He wasn’t certain why he cared so much about the half-angel, but the idea of seeing Maddox in pain didn’t sit well with Killian. “And the other half?” Killian gently guided Maddox so he was sitting mostly upright, his back against the pillows.

  “Human.” Maddox extended his arm tentatively. “It still hurts.”

  “You broke your arm. Humans take six to eight weeks to heal from something like that. You shouldn’t even be able to move it yet.”

  “I think I will heal in no more than two days. My brother, he’s trapped in the earthen realm, and he is often injured in his job. But he heals quickly.”

  Running a hand through his dark brown hair, Killian tried to figure out what he was supposed to do with the angel now. “Do you think you can stand?”

  “Maybe.” Pushing the sheet down to his waist, Maddox threw his legs over the side of the bed while Killian’s gaze was drawn equally to the deep bruises across the angel’s abdomen and his sculpted muscles. Thank the Divine nothing below Maddox’s waist had been broken, he’d be sporting a full stiffy.

  Stepping back to give his patient some room—and when did he start thinking of Maddox as his?—Killian shoved his hands into his pockets, then immediately regretted the gesture when Maddox toppled into him.

  “Maybe not.” The angel shuddered, and Killian wrapped an arm around his waist. “But, uh…I really need to…” He nodded towards the suite’s bathroom.