Cataclysm (Supernova Saga)

by C. L. Parker

  First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2011

  Copyright © C.L. Parker, 2011

  The right of C.L. Parker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Writer’s Coffee Shop

  (Australia) PO Box 2013 Hornsby Westfield NSW 1635

  (USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168

  Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-070-5

  E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-071-2

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.

  Author photo by: Christy Boone, Sweet Somethings Photography.

  Cover image by: © Fallenangel / © CURAphotography / © Aleksejs Kostins

  Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire

  www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/cparker

  C.L. Parker lives near Louisville, Kentucky with hertwo sons. After a brief stint in the US Navy, she settled down and started raising a family; however, her love for the written word pulled at the corners of her imagination, and she soon found herself unable to deny her calling any longer. Before long, Parker ventured into the world of writing. An outlet for her overactive imagination, it quickly grew into a passion that could not be ignored. Having a fascination for the paranormal, it didn’t take long to decide what type of book she would really love to write.

  Parker’s reality is that she is easily lost to a world of fantasy, driven to bring her characters to life if only in the pages of a book, for their story is one that must be told.

  Cataclysm handed my ass to me on a silver platter, all beaten and mangled to bits. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but pretty damn close to the truth. While writing this book, I endured many obstacles in my personal life, and they all seemed to attack at the same time. Really, it’s not fair to gang up on someone like that, but it didn’t matter. I persevered and was victorious, but not without calling in some reinforcements of my own. My pre-readers: Bobbie Butler, Jessica Manley, Melanie Edwards, Fernanda Read, and our latest addition, Maureen Morgan. I also need to tip my hat to Darynda Jones. Where Mel is my Yoda, Darynda is my Obi-Wan Kenobi. I swear, I’m not a Star Wars nerd.

  Huge thanks to Lauren Schmelz, my fantastic editor/Siamese Twin—she knows I like it rough and has no qualms whatsoever in giving it to me that way, but she always has my back.

  While I obviously have to take some creative liberties, it is always my goal to keep as close to what the experts “believe” to be the truth as possible. When we’re dealing with the paranormal world, that opens up a whole other can of worms; and I’m talking three-headed worms from the center of the Earth that turn into were-apes when the moon is full, were sired by a demon-possessed fairy, and birthed by a witch angel with a thirst for blood. Many thanks to John E.L. Tenney for helping me decipher what may or may not be plausible—which is pretty much anything. The inside of your head is such an awesome place to be.

  Special thanks to these fine businesses of St. Augustine, Florida: Silver Feather, Panama Hattie’s, Dune’s Cracker House, Casa Monica Hotel, The World Famous Oasis Deck and Restaurant, and Watson Realty Corp.

  This book is dedicated to my Granny Catherine, who passed away just five short days before the release of Supernova. She was the foundation of all that my family and I are spiritually, and our loss was great.

  Granny, you might not have been able to hold my dream in your hands, but you always held my love in your heart.

  Te amo por siempre. I will love you... forever.

  It was one simple, little task: lure Dominic Grayson to the graveyard and chant the spell that would separate his soul from his body so his father could inhabit it. That was all. She wasn’t asked to cure world hunger. She wasn’t asked to bring peace to Earth and good will to all men. Not that she really gave a rat’s ass about all that mumbo-jumbo anyway. All she had to do was make it possible for her lover to walk the Earth in human form again.

  But Sinclair Davis had failed.

  Failing was all she managed to do lately, and she didn’t know how many more chances she would have before the man to whom she had sworn her undying devotion would tire of her failures and go in search of someone who could get the job done.

  Losing Drake D’Mon wasn’t a thought she could swallow very well. The very idea of it was enough to make her nauseous. He was her everything: lover, teacher, confidant. And he was the only one who gave a damn about what happened to her.

  Dragging her wounded pride behind her, she limped up the stairs of the front porch to her house. It had been a long walk back from the graveyard, and her Mary Janes were caked in mud, one of them missing a heel. Her black stockings looked like they had just barely survived a battle with a demonic cat, and her ruby gypsy skirt was shredded from being caught on a fallen tree limb. Still, her attire looked a lot better than her hair and makeup. She had definitely seen better days, but appearance was the least of her concerns.

  Drake would want to see her right away. Even though she knew she would suffer from his heavy hand, she still craved his presence.

  Slamming the door shut behind her, she kicked her shoes off and shuffled into the kitchen without bothering to turn on any lights. It was after noon, and the sun shone brightly—a little too brightly for her liking. She preferred the darkness, and as such heavy wine-colored panels were hung at every window.

  She let out a disgruntled snort. The Light was the bane of her existence. As it turned out, it was Drake’s as well. It seemed every time she turned around, one of those goody two-shoes Cruz women were showing up with their holier-than-thou attitudes and that goddamn Light destroying every attempt she made to bring her lover back. Sinclair had thought they were in the clear when she and Drake managed to take out that old bag, Availia. But, nooo... as it turned out, the hag had a granddaughter. And what do you know? She had the gift, too.

  Little Miss Kerrigan Cruz thought she had won with her latest stunt. Dominic Grayson had given his soul to the tramp, so he got off on a technicality. But he wasn’t the only flesh and blood vessel at her and Drake’s disposal. Colton Grayson may not have been the perfect candidate, but he would do in a pinch. Dispose of him, they most certainly would. Or at least, they would dispose of his soul. His body—well, that would belong to Drake.

  Dominic’s body had been more ideal, more to her liking. He was all brawn and sultry flesh where Colton was just a little peon of a pissant. Still, they say it’s not the size of the wave, but the motion of the ocean. With Drake inhabiting Colton’s vessel, she knew he would have no problem sinking her battleship.

  She grabbed a half-empty bottle of whiskey out of the refrigerator and popped the top, guzzling its contents.

  “Sinclair...”

  It was Drake’s voice, forever present in her mind, beckoning her.

  She sat the bottle down on the counter. Sparks of excitement and fear made her heart palpitate in its cavity. Like a moth to a flame, she was drawn to her bedroom. Her body seemed to hover as she glided over the floor. Her desire to see, touch... feel her lover won out over fear of the castigation for her failure. His displeasure would surely be made known.

  She wandered down the hall and passed the spare room she had sealed off. A shiver went down her spin
e, and she clenched her eyes shut to block out the deluge of memories that threatened to attack. It was the same reaction she always had when passing the closed door. She never went in there, and entrance was forbidden by any member of her coven as well. She just couldn’t bear the heartache of seeing it, smelling it, knowing what could have been.

  When she made it to the end of the hall, she opened her bedroom door. The darkness of the interior was even bleaker than the rest of her two-bedroom house. The ceiling and walls were painted black, the windows were adorned with black velvet drapes, and black candles garnished every surface not covered by her black magic paraphernalia. It was her sanctuary, her solace. It defined who she was: abysmal, sinister, devoid of light. It matched her soul, which might have seemed like an odd thing to a normal person, but it was who she was, and she thrived in her own skin.

  She sauntered over to her bed and picked up one of the many bottles of sleeping pills that littered her nightstand, cracking the lid and popping three without the aid of water. It was a routine to which she had become accustomed, and she almost savored the chalky, medicinal residue that coated her tongue. She had to sleep. It was the only way she could see Drake in his once glorious form, not in the body of the raven he had been forced to inhabit.

  Casting her covers aside, she crawled into her bed and waited for the shadow of sleep to stake its claim. She had expected him to return home with her, to lie next to her in that bed, to take her willing body. It was her fault he wasn’t there.

  A lone raven’s caw sounded outside her bedroom window. He was waiting for her.

  She closed her eyes and let her heavy limbs fall where they may. Her head rolled to the side, and she sighed deeply. “It won’t be long now, lover,” she whispered into the empty room as she let the darkness take her.

  Moments later, she found herself weightless, adrift in hazy awareness. She lifted her head to look around the room. The candles were lit, a soft glow casting dancing shadows against her blackened walls. The curtains billowed and then stilled. She listened to the deathly quiet of her room, and then she heard a heavy sigh.

  She sat up on the edge of her bed and called in the direction of the sound. “Drake?”

  “Could you be any more pathetic?” His voice drifted across the space from the darkened corner of the room. He was angry, just as she had expected.

  Drake stepped into the candle glow and stalked toward her. His eerie, yet hypnotic eyes pinned her in place when she attempted to stand. “I gave you the tools you needed to get the fucking job done, Sinclair! And still, you failed me!”

  She bowed her head in shame and fidgeted. She couldn’t bear the disappointed look on his face. “I know. I’m sorry. I tried, it’s just that...”

  Her explanation was cut short when he backhanded her across the face. She whimpered and cowered away, holding her cheek. She could already feel the scorching heat of the sting left behind by his knuckles, but she knew she deserved it.

  “Dammit, why did you make me do that?” Drake reached for her. She flinched instinctively before realizing her mistake.

  His hand stalled, and he studied her quizzically. Much slower, he reached for her again.

  “Since when do you pull away from me, Sin?” He called her by the pet name he had given her, his voice having lost its hard edge. His long, thin fingers caressed her hair, and she leaned into his touch.

  “You’re angry.” Her voice was small.

  “Yes, I am. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Sin. It pains me to have to hit you out of anger, but you forced my hand, didn’t you?”

  Sinclair nodded, taking full responsibility for her actions and his. She deserved so much more than a strike across the face. She wished he would unleash his full fury on her.

  “It would seem that my youngest son is in town.” He slinked his cold hand over her shoulder and down her back. “At least you managed to do something right.”

  Colton was Drake’s plan B. He always liked to have options should something not go according to plan. Using the blood tie that bound them to aid in his search, he had sought out his son. Dominic had gone to great lengths to send his brother as far away as possible, but he obviously had no clue how powerful his father’s magic was. Once Colton was found, Drake had instructed her to have Theo, one of her very loyal coven members, call and disguise himself as Dominic to get him to come home where he would be within their reach.

  It had worked like a charm. All Theo had to say was that he found their father, and just like that, Colton was lured into their trap. The poor lad was so desperate to have a family he would believe anything. Too bad Dominic had sheltered him so much during his young life. He might have been more suspicious if he hadn’t.

  “But, I don’t understand why you sent him to the Cruz house instead of here. We could have had him without that little bitch knowing anything.” It was more an inquiry than a statement. She was well aware her questioning might earn another strike to the face, but instead, he continued to pet her hair lovingly.

  “Leading him here would be much too easy. I hold grudges which must be vindicated, and what better way to teach my eldest son a lesson than to torture his beloved brother right before his eyes?” He fisted her hair and pulled her head back, forcing her to look up at him. His voice turned hard again, the sound making her shiver with desire. “It would behoove you not to fail me again.”

  She swallowed hard, the angle of her head making it difficult to push the saliva down her throat. Gazing into the pitted depths of his eyes, she reached out and seductively ran her hands along his thighs. She wanted him, needed him.

  “Anything for you, my love. Anything.” And she meant it. If he had asked her to take her own life in order to spend eternity in the fiery pits of Hell with him, she would have done it.

  “Good little bitch.” He maintained his hold on her hair with one hand and used the other to undo his pants to release the object of her desire. She licked her lips in anticipation of the gift he was about to bestow upon her.

  “You may suck my cock now, Sin. Show me your gratitude for my forgiveness.”

  Three weeks later...

  Pale, pink magnolia petals danced in the air, carried on a gentle summer’s breeze. The branches of the old oak tree swayed to and fro, the rustling of its leaves providing the perfect percussion to the chorus of the birds’ lullaby. The sky was crystal blue with smatterings of billowy clouds gracing the vast expanse with their presence. Kerrigan Cruz was in her place of solace, cradled by lush, green grass that cushioned her naked body. The rays of the sun reached down from the heavens to kiss her creamy skin.

  The reason she was there was different from all the other times she had receded into her mind’s eye. The thing that had drawn her to her haven was not a little puppy who was hanging onto life by a thread. It was not an innocent man’s soul whose very existence was threatened with her being its only salvation. It was him. Her soul mate, Dominic Grayson.

  An icy cold breath whispered across her figure, drawing the buds of her breasts tight and pebbling her skin. She arched her back as a quiet moan began to build in her chest and slink its way out of her parted lips.

  “Para mí, Querida. Déjame ver.” His voice was a mixture of pleading and demanding, husky and full of lust. He translated for her. “For me, Querida. Let me see.”

  She opened her eyes and was back in the attic bedroom. The only evidence of where she had been was in the luminescence reflected back at him in her eyes.

  She heard his sharp intake of breath, followed by a low rumble from his chest. Without warning, Dominic moved down her body, dipping his head between her thighs.

  “Mine.” His voice was raspy, his teeth clenched. Then that frosty sensation she knew only too well centered at the apex of her legs.

  She gasped and threw her head back, rolling her hips toward him and lacing her fingers through his hair. He devoured her, consumed her, and she silently thanked the powers that be for the ten-thousandth time that he’d been brought
into her life.

  She closed her eyes again, warping back to the place where he would always be waiting for her. Everything was more heightened there. Smells were more aromatic. Sights were crisp and vivid. The most minuscule of sounds were amplified tenfold. And her flesh was bathed in euphoric rapture.

  Paradise, for some, lay behind pearly gates. For Kerrigan, it was within the realm of her sanctuary.

  Although he wasn’t actually in her sanctuary, her gift allowed her to envision him there in his physical form—not as a tree, or a rose, or even the sea. Tendrils of wavy locks, black as night, moved between her legs. The fine hair of his scruffy jaw tickled the insides of her thighs softly.

  He was insatiable—a starved man feasting on what could very well be his last meal. His satiation was her pleasure. She arched her back and moaned her orgasm. Dominic hummed at the taste of her. When he was satisfied that he had received all she had to give, he lifted his head and smirked.

  God, he was beautiful.

  The sinewy muscles of his biceps rippled under tawny skin marked with black ink in an intricate design on his left shoulder. Kerrigan’s sky blue eyes followed the pattern over his corded neck until it ended at his hairline. Her attention was drawn to his handsome face. Strong and flawless, he was an Adonis to be worshipped. Those celadon green eyes were inflamed again with raw, animalistic desire. He was on his hands and knees, still hungry and looking for his next meal. The predator stalked up the length of her body to nestle between her legs.

  Kerrigan pulled her knees up and moved her hand between their bodies. “I want you,” she said, stroking him unabashedly through his jeans.

  Dominic nuzzled the spot just below her ear and pushed back against her hand. “Me tienes, Querida. Nunca me ha liberado... You have me. Never set me free.”

  A shiver ran along her spine as she listened to the Spanish cadence of his voice caressing the words. Slow and deliberate, sinfully erotic. The way his tongue rolled the Rs and pressed the Ns should have been illegal. He had no Spanish heritage in his blood, but he spoke the language so flawlessly one might have mistaken it as his first. Countless years spent in the company of the Cuban mafia, with whom he had been employed, had necessitated his understanding of their words.