KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (3 Powerful Heroines, 2 Complete Novels + Bonus Novella)

by Julie Leto

  He found the key on the second pass and inserted it into the lock. He attempted a twist, but while the lock mechanism gave way, the door did not budge.

  “Hot damn,” she said, nudging him out of the way so she could grab the doorknob. “The lock is sticking. Means no one’s been inside for a long time.”

  “Or someone hasn’t used the WD-40 in a while,” he offered. “When’s the last time you were inside?”

  “Years ago. My father used to find me down here and totally lose his mind. If he ever found out I’d taken pictures of some of the items and kept them hidden, he would have died from an aneurysm rather than cancer.”

  She grunted when the door finally yielded to the pressure of her shoulder. Stale air pressed into the dank tunnel. Almost instantly, Paschal felt the presence of Rogan’s magic. He’d had more than fifty years to hone his ability to sense the dark power, even from a distance. The trick would be to focus. According to Gemma, her ancestors had been notorious pack rats. If he did not call upon his psychometric tricks, it could take them weeks to explore every item warehoused in this underground cavern. And they didn’t have weeks. According to Gemma, they’d be lucky if they had days.

  She flicked on the flashlight she’d brought along, found an ancient light switch and, with effort, flipped it on. After a few protesting flickers and the pop of a bulb somewhere in the distance, feeble amber light glowed above them. Paschal poked his head in and saw what appeared to be rows and rows of shelving. Layers of dust and cobwebs made everything gray and unappealing—to someone who had to rely on his eyes to find what he was looking for. Luckily, Paschal had other skills at his disposal.

  Gemma groaned. “How lovely. You’d think the bozos running this outfit now would assign someone to dust down here every once in a while. My family’s legacy looks like piles of old junk.”

  “You know what they say about one man’s trash,” he replied.

  She snickered doubtfully. “If you can find a treasure in this abandoned trove, you’ll be worth the price I paid to get you here?”

  Flashlight in front of him, Paschal moved through the rows. The shelves, stacked all the way up to the cramped six-foot ceiling, created a maze that snaked deep beneath the house. He found a wild array of vases and urns and boxes crafted in carved wood, fine pewter and even blown glass. Goblets and wineglasses collected inches’ worth of dirt and dust inside their sometimes uneven bowls.

  Finally, he found the cup he sought—a pewter chalice marked with Rogan’s seal. Carved into the side of the dark metal, a hawk soared. A red stone glittered from within its talons. Gemma’s photograph of this exact item had lured him here. Could this cup possess the spirit of one of his missing brothers?

  He hesitated before lifting it into his hands. He’d anticipated this moment for months. No, years. And yet, when he finally touched the cup, nothing happened; the metal was cold and dead in his hands.

  He cursed, then noticed a second, identical chalice on the shelf. In fact, there was an entire collection of seven. Not a single one gave off the vibration he’d awaited for so long.

  Yet he’d sensed Rogan’s magic even before he’d entered. Something of value had to be here. He simply had to find it.

  The K’vr might be in disarray, but the storehouse of their legacy was divided down distinct boundaries. Household items. Jewelry. Crude mechanical devices and tools. Weapons. Paschal smirked as he looked over the swords, which were not quite as dusty as the rest.

  “See anything interesting?” Gemma called, still in the entryway, from the sound of her voice.

  “Not yet,” he murmured. But then, it wasn’t his eyes that were going to assist in finding what he sought.

  When he approached a row of musical instruments, a shiver up his spine stopped him cold.

  “Paschal?”

  A golden circle of light rounded the corner. After a moment, Gemma joined him, holding a lantern as he pawed through a box of flutes.

  He didn’t need two tries this time around. Not only did he recognize the instrument carved from ebony as belonging to his brother Rafe, but the echo of the half-Romani’s psychic signature, a mournful tune, nearly blasted in his ears. Gemma yelped and jumped back.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked.

  So, the time had come.

  “Yes, my dear, I most certainly did.”

  “Someone else must be down here.” She stepped back toward the aisle that would lead outside. He grabbed her arm.

  “No,” he assured her. “We are quite alone.”

  Paschal rolled the flute across his palm, blocking the images from overwhelming him, acclimating himself to what must happen next. He was torn between rejoicing in the fact that he’d finally found an item to connect to the past, and lamenting that under the circumstances, he had to show Gemma the secret that might just undo them both.

  “But I heard music,” she insisted.

  “From this flute,” he explained. “This once belonged to a man named Rafe Forsyth. He lived more than two hundred and fifty years ago in Valoren.”

  Her eyes widened so that the whites nearly outshone the shocked blue of her irises. “How do you know?”

  “By touch.”

  “That’s impossible,” she muttered.

  He smiled. “You don’t really believe that or you would not have brought me here or struck our bargain. You’ve lived up to your end. Now take my hand and let me show you what you need to know.”

  Surprisingly, she hesitated. “I never imagined that you were—”

  “There’s no time. I need to know what happened to Rafe.”

  “How?”

  “Shh,” Paschal said, then grabbed Gemma’s quivering hand. “Enough talk. Just hang on for the ride.”

  1747

  The Romani colony at Valoren

  Rafe’s heart froze, then dropped into the bile-rich depths of his stomach. From atop the Chovihano’s vardo, where he’d climbed to get an all-encompassing view of the village of Umgeben, he saw a girl running into the forest, pursued by a man in a flapping cloak, shouting her name. For an instant, the flash of dark hair evoked his beloved, Irika. But she was gone, safely hidden by her father along with Rafe’s infant son. The village was deserted, but oddly peaceful. Nothing looked out of place. He had no reason to suspect any danger had touched his family—yet. They were likely in the mountain caves, waiting for the mercenary army sent by King George of England to find the Gypsy colony abandoned.

  But Rafe’s sister was another matter. Her name, shouted again by her pursuer, rent the air. Sarina! Only hours ago, he and his brothers had read her hastily scribbled note, announcing her elopement with the Gypsy’s patron, Lord Rogan. Coupled with the threat of annihilation by a paid and ruthless army that had already crossed the Hanoverian borders into Valoren and would reach Umgeben by daybreak, Rafe and his father’s British-born sons had ridden to the village to find their sister and evacuate the Romani.

  But upon arriving in the village, they’d found no one—until now. Sarina was running away from the man she’d so childishly professed to love. Running for her life.

  Rafe opened his mouth to call to his sister, but she had disappeared into the trees only seconds before Rogan. The sound of their retreat was instantly swallowed. Even in skirts, Sarina was incredibly fast. Unfortunately, with cursed magic at his greedy disposal, Rogan moved with swiftness not unlike the wind.

  Rafe leaped to the ground and shouted for his brothers, who, like him, were searching the village. While the lightning and thunder of the storm they’d ridden through had retreated, time was still their enemy. Why was Sarina running from the man she claimed she loved? No matter how Rafe and Irika had railed against her affection for the stranger, Sarina had defended him. Loved him. She’d abandoned her family to be with him. And now she ran from him as if her life depended on it?

  At least Rafe had found her. No matter how many chase games he’d lost to her as a child, this time he would catch up. This time, he would snatch her away fr
om the man who had spawned this invasion by defying the British king.

  Rafe sprinted toward the forest. Over his shoulder he announced his position to the emptiness, hoping Aiden, Damon or another of his other brothers would hear him and pursue. Rafe suspected he could rip the blackguard Rogan apart with his own hands, but if the sorcerer sensed his approach, Rafe would be at a disadvantage. Rafe’s magic flowed from a source of tranquility and stillness. Rogan’s power flew forth from hate and rage.

  Still, Rafe knew these woods as well as any Gypsy in the colony, even if he had been sired in the gadje manor on the other side of the ridge. Rogan rarely ventured farther than the gilded steps of his grand castle.

  Once within the copse of trees, Rafe stopped, closed his eyes and concentrated on sound. Even before his ears registered the whispers of the spirits that roamed these woods—spirits he’d communed with since childhood—he heard not only the stomp and crunch of rapid footfalls, but Rogan’s cries for Sarina to stop. His anguish was overwhelming, knocking Rafe in the gut like a punch. Why did the kalo rat want her so badly? Wisely, his sister did not reply, though he could practically hear her panting as she ran farther, faster, and with desperation to reach some safe haven.

  Rafe forced himself to move with deliberation and stealth. The element of surprise might be the difference between Sarina’s life and Rogan’s death. After sliding around a massive oak, Rafe leaped across the twist of roots knotting the ground beneath a blanket of decaying leaves, then ducked through a snarl of prickly bushes.

  He knew Sarina had gone this way—he could smell her perfume, feel her fear in the wind. They were not twins, but, born of the same mother and sharing the same Gypsy blood, Rafe and Sarina knew each other’s spirits. They were both wild and unpredictable. Passionate and stubborn. Growing up in a British household, they’d been allowed only a limited number of hours per day in the village. They both hungered for the traditions and the magic of their mother’s people. But Rafe had married the Chovihano’s daughter and become part of the tribe, while Sarina remained an outsider—which had sent Sarina into the arms of the o Beng himself.

  “Sarina!”

  He could not keep silent any longer. He shouted her name over and over, suddenly aware that the echoes of footfalls no longer crackled through the forest. He considered turning back, finding his brothers now that they finally knew the direction she’d gone, but there was no time. Rogan was on her heels. He’d catch her. Rafe had no idea what the wizard would do once he had her in his grasp.

  But after a half hour of searching without hearing another human sound in the dense wood, he was forced to turn back. He circled around to the entrance to the village, his lungs burning from running and climbing, then staggered to the large gates Rogan had been building, but had not yet completed, to protect the colony.

  While he pulled in gulps of air, Rafe glanced beyond the tall fence posts to the castle at the other end of the village. Rogan had finished the ostentatious structure, and yet the Romani remained without gates, unprotected and vulnerable. Rafe looked up at the sky. From the position of the moon and stars, finally visible through the swiftly moving clouds, he estimated the dawn would come in less than four hours.

  If the army discovered the caves, the Romani would die trapped inside walls, torture for a people who traveled the earth. Confining them to a colony in a deserted corner of Germany had been cruel enough, but at least the first King George had allowed the Gypsies to live. His greedy son, however, had not appreciated Lord Rogan’s arrogance. The fool had taken control of the village and declared Valoren free from British rule—which explained the march of the mercenary army toward Rafe’s home.

  Rafe had started through the gates when a flash of red caught his eye. Carved into a stone marker embedded in the fence posts was Rogan’s insignia—a hawk with a fire opal for an eye. With facets more brilliant than a ruby, and decidedly more uncommon, the gem was the sorcerer’s favorite amulet. He had them crafted into his most prized possessions, from the brooch he wore boldly on his cloak to the hilt of his favorite sword. It signified the wealth he’d used to achieve his reign over Rafe’s people.

  Unable to stand the insult of the usurper’s signature, Rafe drew his knife, intent on gouging the cursed gem out of the gatepost. With a battle cry from deep in his soul, he stabbed into the marker, connecting with the opal.

  Pain shot through Rafe’s arms, then centered on his heart. A blast of heat fired his insides, and before he could scream in shock or agony, the world went black. His legs buckled. He collapsed, but the ground never came.

  Only nothingness…

  One

  “Don’t touch it, Mariah.”

  With dexterous skill bred from close shaves all over the globe, Mariah Hunter pocketed the stone she’d spent the last half hour digging out of the craggy earth and traded it for the Walther P38 pistol she’d bought in a Berlin pawnshop. The warning had come from the last person she’d wanted to catch up to her. And considering the dangerous and desperate people who were currently on her trail even in the middle of this godforsaken wasteland, that was saying a lot.

  Bending her knee to cover the gaping hole in the ground, Mariah stood, then slid her boot directly over the spot where she’d found the stone. Ben Rousseau couldn’t see that his warning had come too late. She hadn’t had a chance to notice anything about the rock other than a glossy red shine in one corner and the odd markings carved along the edges, but the find must be valuable or Ben wouldn’t have taken a chance with a confrontation.

  He held his open palms at shoulder height. “I’m not armed.”

  “Then you’re an idiot,” Mariah replied, flipping off the Walther’s safety. She spared a split-second glance at the thick trees directly behind him. The massive pines curved around the tight, oblong clearing. She saw no sign that Ben had brought anyone with him, but she couldn’t imagine that her former lover had come after her without backup. At the very least, she expected that Catalina Reyes, the paranormal researcher who’d been sharing Ben’s bed for the last year, was out there somewhere, probably training a rifle sight on her while Ben attempted to sweet-talk Mariah out of her hard-earned treasure.

  Mariah hoped Cat remembered that she owed Mariah a favor. Mariah had used her aviation contacts to track down some dodgy collector threatening to swipe some Gypsy artifact out from under Ben and Cat.

  Ben took a step forward, but Mariah stopped him with a shot that missed his big toe by a quarter inch. He jumped back and cursed, just as Mariah dropped and rolled, bouncing back to her feet with her gun steady.

  Maybe Cat isn’t here.

  “Hey! I said I was unarmed,” Ben shouted, side-stepping to the left, arms out, instinctively protective of someone hidden behind him.

  Or maybe she is.

  “I beat you to this dig, Rousseau. Finders keepers. Back off now, while you still have all your body parts.”

  Ben’s gaze dropped slyly to his crotch. Maybe he wasn’t as clueless as she remembered. He’d zeroed in on precisely where she might have shot him ten years ago, after their disastrous relationship and fiery breakup. Now she had no desire to hurt him. She simply wanted to keep what was hers.

  Though he didn’t lower his hands, Ben’s posture relaxed and his mouth curved into an infuriatingly lazy grin. “Threats, Mariah? I’m just trying to keep you from falling into a quagmire of trouble you really don’t want right now. From what I’m hearing, you have enough on your plate.”

  He wasn’t talking out of his arse on that, was he? If not for the aforementioned quagmire of trouble, she wouldn’t be in this godforsaken wasteland digging up rocks and threatening an ex-boyfriend with a gun.

  “Listen to the bloody professor,” she said haughtily, stepping back and to the right, lining up her body to make the quickest escape. “And whatever trouble I’m in, I’ll get out without any help from you. I always have. You may have lost your nerve for the antiquities game, but I haven’t.”

  “Some artifacts are worth comi
ng out of retirement for,” he replied, with an annoying hint of cockiness that contradicted his current situation. The man never did know when an ounce of humility would do him good.

  “But this place,” he explained, “it’s cursed, Mariah.”

  “So was that cave near the Oasis at Dakhla. That didn’t stop either one of us from scooping up the statue of Sekhmet and selling it to the collector in Yemen.”

  “This is different. Trust me—”

  She snorted. “Trust you?”

  “Anything taken from this area,” he continued, ignoring her justified doubts, “could contain very powerful black magic. There are some really dangerous—”

  Mariah laughed. She couldn’t imagine for one minute that Ben thought his warning would scare her off. Not after all they’d seen together. Not after all they’d survived.

  “This isn’t funny,” he insisted.

  She raised the gun to his chest. “Look, after what I’ve been through, I take my laughs where I can get them. Now pipe down. I thought I heard something.”

  The wind, sharp with an icy nip, whistled through the pines. Tucked in a corner of Germany still relatively undeveloped and surprisingly wild, the area had been dubbed Valoren, which the locals told her translated loosely into “land of the lost.” Made perfect sense. From the sharp, jutting ridges of the mountains that surrounded them to the mossy soil beneath their feet, the area was a perfect place to hide treasures like the cricket ball–size stone she now had in her pocket.

  Under the circumstances, she didn’t imagine that Ben would tell her why this stone—or whatever else she might have found here—was so sought-after. Even the people she’d met in the nearby village had been perplexed by the recent interest in their undeveloped corner of the world. As a result, the locals had become exceedingly suspicious. She’d considered it a major coup that she’d found a local artisan with Gypsy roots who’d provided a hand-drawn map.