Magic After Dark: A Collection of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels

by Margo Bond Collins

  “What’s going on?” Declan’s blue eyes bounced from the men in front of him before coming to rest on mine. “Gemma?”

  I took the remaining steps to Declan and threw my arms around his shoulders. The poor boy was shaking, and Jaiden or Arrum were just gaping at the terrified kid. I shook my head at the two of them and navigated Declan through the fallen pews to the fire.

  “Sit here.” I pointed to the seat Stella had left behind. It was the only seat that hadn’t fallen over earlier.

  Declan tentatively sat,, twisting his hands twist together in his lap. Arrum and Jaiden also reclaimed their seats around the fire, though they both looked just as dazed. Declan’s hair was already changing into the pink that all phoenixes sported. Lucky for him his eyes were already blue, so it wouldn’t be too much of a shock for him the next time he looked into a mirror.

  “Am I-”

  “A phoenix. A Water Phoenix to be exact,” Arrum supplies.

  I sent up a thank you to the Goddess for pulling Arrum and Jaiden out of their shock. Goddess knew I would need them both to help Declan transition into the phoenix he needed to be.

  “What does that mean?” Declan turned towards Arrum.

  “You’re now in charge of keeping the balance here in Hollows Ground. Each of us is charged with one element and together we keep our home safe from any outsiders. Without the magic of the phoenixes, Hollows Ground wouldn’t exist, couldn’t exist. The magic that now resides within you, passed from our last Water Phoenix, will guide you.”

  “Guide me where?”

  Jaiden chuckled. “Everywhere. Your magic guided you here tonight. And tomorrow it will guide you to your new home. Your magic will be drawn to a place somewhere here in Hollows Ground where it can be stored safely and do what it does.”

  “Do what it does?”

  “No one really understands how it all works, not even us phoenixes,” I explained. “Every day you will go to your cave. And each day your phoenix will create a crystal full of the magic that Hollows Ground needs that day to survive.” The magic of it all still astonished me.

  “But it still doesn’t make sense.” Unable to sit still, Jaiden began pacing again. “This has never happened before.”

  “What has never happened?” Declan asked.

  “Balance is what keeps us alive. We were expecting a girl to come through those doors. Two males and two females is how it’s always been since the beginning. Obviously...”

  “I’m a boy. And Gemma’s the only girl,” Declan adds.

  The truth shocked me. Declan was right. Not only were we unbalanced but I was the only remaining female phoenix. I thought back to our red crystals that each of us created today. Maybe it really was an omen. Just maybe this all meant much more than any of us could possibly understand. As I took a look around at our new family, a familiar feeling of dread crept up my spine. An unbalance had never happened in all of Hollows Grounds history—a history of success and growth. I sent up another silent prayer to the Goddess and prayed that this would not mean a time of misfortune or worse. I prayed this wouldn’t the end of Hollows Ground.

  The End (or just the beginning…)

  Continue the Hollows Ground Series in Book 1, Second Sight

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  About the Author

  USA Today Bestselling author, J.A. Culican is a teacher by day and a writer by night. She lives in New Jersey with her husband of eleven years and their four young children.

  J.A. Culican’s inspiration to start writing came from her children and their love for all things magical. Bedtime stories turned to reality after her oldest daughter begged her for the book from which her stories of dragons came from. In turn, the series The Keeper of Dragons was born.

  Read More from J.A. Culican

  www.jaculican.com

  Hearts Return

  Melle Amade

  Hearts Return © 2017 Melle Amade

  HEARTS RETURN Copyright © 2017 by Author Name.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.

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

  For information contact; address http://.melleamade.com

  Edited by Kai Hennings

  First Edition: May 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Hearts Return

  Everyone is relying on him. His heart relies on someone forbidden.

  Marcello is the alpha male of a dying shifter clan hiding in the villages of Italy. His only goal is to save his people by avoiding the Hunters, Berzerken and disease that are destroying them. Though he seeks every avenue to heal the mate that was chosen for him, he can't get the young woman he met for the briefest of moments two years ago out of his mind. Their exchanged messages have kept him engaged and feeling alive through the trials of his shifter life and now he will sacrifice almost anything to see her again.

  Hearts Return

  “Hey.” The room is dark and reeks of menthol, dust and sick. My boots spread dirt on the worn floorboards as I stride to the thick, faded blue curtains and yank them open. The warm afternoon Tuscan sun pours through the gray space. The window sticks, but I grip the weathered frame and slam it upwards. This room needs some warm summer air. I breathe in deeply, even though I’m not winded from the jog up the long six flights of stairs to the top of the building.

  “How is she?” I pull my knapsack off and step towards the bed where the fragile figure lies resting. My fiancée. I swallow. I’ve been betrothed to her since I was born. Oldest boy in the pack marries the eldest girl. But I’ve never gotten used to it, even now we’re adults it seems weird.

  “Did you get the stuff?” Lucia asks, her gray eyes piercing me as she yanks her long black hair off her shoulders and ties it hastily into a bun.

  I bring the two small bottles of oil out of my bag. They look tiny. I have no idea how they’re going to help, but the witch of Verona said these were the best. “Yeah.” My gaze stays on Violetta, who lies amongst the blankets, skin clammy, head tilted back, hair plastered against her pale face.

  “You should let me die,” Violetta murmurs.

  “Never.” Lucia is perfunctory, already pulling the corks out of the oil bottles and preparing to blend the ingredients with the coconut oil resting on the stained side table. She pauses for a moment, sniffing at the concoction with a small wrinkled nose. Hands on hips Lucia scans the table. “I thought I had it out,” she murmurs, pressing a hand against her face. The constant care of her sister is wearing her down.

  It’s an odd comfort to watch her work. Reminds me of Mama when she would hear one of us sniffle or cough, she’d immediately grab an oil to rub it under our nose or around the back of our necks. I was always self-conscious about the way it made me smell in class, but now I miss it.

  Lucia moves to a tall cabinet along the wall, pulling at a ribbon she wears around her neck. A key is tied to the end, which she uses to unlocks the door of the cabinet. From inside the dark chamber she picks the only thing on the shelf. A small purple and gold vial.

  She takes one droplet out of the vial and bleeds it into the mixture of oils. It’s as if the mixture comes to life, bubbling and gurgling and emanating a soft orange glow. It turns into thin smoke, quickly fading away in the stale air.

  “That shit tastes horrible.” Violetta’s voice is weak and soft as it rises from the bed.

  “I’d make you eat a dead rat if I thought it would help you feel better,” Lu
cia says without a touch of remorse.

  “I’ll get you a straw,” I say.

  “And the chocolate,” Violetta says. “Get me my chocolate.”

  “Of course,” I say with a mild smile. Violetta is nothing if not predictable.

  The penthouse we’re renting in Firenze has a strange layout. The back of the apartment is the kitchen and the terrace comes of that, stretching all the way along the flat. I stand and watch the dying sun for a moment as it sinks over the red tile rooftops, which create a patchwork to the edge of town. Beyond the red roofs, it’s all green rolling hills surrounding the famed city. If I tilt my head just so and leaned forward, I can even see the Duomo from here, it’s red top like a giant bishop’s hat poking up over the town. It’s a far cry from our tiny village life.

  Our clan has owned this flat for generations. Violetta insisted on staying here instead of in the village. She’s right. We don’t know what is driving her sickness and we need to make sure she’s not contagious. Even I don’t stay here with her. Lucia does. I’m secretly grateful for that, even though I always offer to stay. But I want to be back home in Soriano, enjoying the wide-open spaces and green rolling hills of Lazio, farther south, warmer, and not so claustrophobic.

  Having her here was safer if a Berzerken attacked, too. If the Berzerken discovered their home in Soriano, well, we wouldn’t be able to move quickly enough to protect the clan from the bear shifters. I grab a glass out of the cupboard, filling it with water. The city water is nothing like the purity you find in the country. But it must do. Everything will have to do.

  “Hurry up,” shouts Lucia.

  “I had forgotten you have no patience,” I murmur, returning from the airy kitchen to the claustrophobic sick room. She has every right to have no patience. She’s been living under the stress of her sister’s illness for a year now. When the illness started taking the older members of the family, no one thought it would descend on us.

  I hand the glass back to Lucia and watch from the side, arms held tight against my chest, and watch as Lucia nurses her sister.

  This is all so fucked.

  “I’m going to go and check the Orvieto camp,” I say, pushing myself off the wall.

  “Did something happen?” Lucia’s worried gaze searches my face.

  “No,” I shake my head. It hadn’t. Not at all. “I’ve got a couple of the pups watching it and I just want to make sure they’re okay.” I duck my head so she can’t see the truth in my eyes.

  “You can’t fool me,” she says, swatting my elbow.

  “Huh?” I cringe. Has she used her-

  “I know you just want to go to the summer jazz festival.” Her smile is generous.

  I can’t stop the flood of relief that pours through me. “You know I love a good clarinet run.”

  “It’s okay,” she says pushing me to leave. “Go.”

  I rest in the dark hallway for a moment. This is wrong.

  But I can’t not go.

  I stand there for a long time, watching her sit on the grass. Her long pale blonde hair floats in soft curls around her. And her ass… like a cherry bomb. A slight pressure between my legs makes me look away from her figure and gaze at the stage, where some old ugly farts play music. My body calms.

  Constance, this random American girl I happened to meet in Brindisi a couple of summers ago.

  Why am I drawn to her so much?

  She’s just as stunning as when I saw her two years ago. Others may just see her as some girl, I’m sure, but to me, she’s the perfect rose. Her lips are full, but delicate. Her eyes… fantastic, gently slanted, with long curling lashes. She’s all sorts of innocence that I don’t feel I’ve ever known. She holds a golden curl and dances the tail of it lightly against one of her palms. Every now and then she gazes around the crowd. And I know she’s looking for me.

  What is it about this girl that makes me want her so much?

  It’s not because Violetta is ill. I have never wanted Violetta like this. She has always been my companion. The one I will be with, the one I must be with. We are mated through requirement, not through the heart, but this girl... This innocent girl who knows nothing of the world we fight in, the world we struggle in. We are hunted by our own kind and by humans. I have many more things to do, and yet I want this one and part of me needs this one. Even as I stare at her, there is something about her that feeds me.

  Everything else in my life is for my family or for my fiancée. For our future. A future I never chose but I am required to uphold. And I want to uphold it. But I never realized I was missing something until I met Constance.

  She is the air I never knew I was missing. Seeing her is like being able to take a breath of life and my whole body relaxes in a way it never has before.

  I don’t believe in any of the “true love” bullshit these others go on and on about. Romeo and Juliet were idiots. You don’t die for love.

  Especially when you first meet somebody, one so damn pretty. Where the light sparkles off her hair and in her eyes. A girl who gets your attention. You don’t chase her and you certainly don’t die for her. You turn and walk away.

  That’s what I should do. It’s my duty.

  But somehow I can’t walk away from this. Knowing she exists makes the ache inside me abate. It transforms into a driving force pushing me forward, instead of holding me back.

  She looks around again, her pale blue eyes taking in the milling summer jazz crowds. But her jaw is set, unrelaxed. My arms tense to reach for her, fingers tap nervously against my jeans.

  Am I capable of talking to her without touching her?

  I don’t know the answer, but I didn’t come this far to not find out. At least in public, we will be safe. Nothing can happen anyway.

  Slow steps take me towards her. I want to know the moment she sees me. Every step my feet are on fire, yet cool rain is finally washing the ache from my heart. I’m torn by the soothing shower and the nervous flames. It all mixes inside me like a whirlwind.

  But it stops dead when she looks at me.

  All I can see is her face, which cracks into a rainbow smile.

  I must have one, too, because the world gets a little darker as my eyes crinkle up and sting a little. Her smile is breathtaking. It makes me want to press my face directly against hers so I can lose myself in it.

  She propels herself up from the grass, twisting herself towards me. I’ve never seen a pair jeans look so nice, ever, and all I want to do is cup her ass in my hands.

  Everything about her makes me want her.

  I slip my hands in my pockets.

  “Ciao.”

  It sounds like the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. I lean forward to hide my embarrassment and kiss her on both cheeks.

  “Ciao.” she grins back.

  I almost forgot she’s fluent in Italian. What a strange thing. But her accent is perfect. “How do you find the music?” I nod towards the old guys on stage.

  “Boring,” she laughs. “It’s so weird to see you.”

  I nod. It is. “I think this makes it what, a total of six minutes I have ever stood with you. If we include the five minutes when we met two years ago.”

  Her laughter trills down my spine. I want to do more of that. More of making her laugh and hearing it infiltrate my body.

  “Come on,” she says.

  There’s something about the tone of her voice that touches some part of my body. It seems like the back of my neck, but it might just be my dick. And I want to do whatever she asks me to do, as long as it’s not leaving her side. I can tell by the way she laughs and looks up at me, she doesn’t want me to leave either.

  Maybe ever.

  I shove this away.

  “Maybe we should just sit in the park and kiss,” I shrug, not daring to touch her again.

  “No way,” she grins pressing a hand against my chest. “My parents are going to ask me what I did all day. Kissing you won’t go down well on their list of things I should do.”

 
“Do you tell your parents everything?” I ask. Her voice relaxes my body and looking at her is like sitting in a warm bath.

  “No,” she shakes her head. “But I don’t lie.” There’s a darkness in her gaze. Violetta. She is thinking of my fiancé. In all our texts and emails and facetimes and every connection we’ve ever had over the last two years since we met, there has always, always, always been Violetta.

  But there is so much more that she has no idea about. An entire world.

  “Let’s go and see the church.” She reaches forward and tugs on my wrist, pulling my hand from my jean pocket.

  “No!” The word shoots like a bullet out of my mouth.

  “But I love churches,” she says. “I want to see it.”

  Dark knots of fiber weave their way through my stomach and tighten like a noose.

  The church.

  I don’t want to go in the church. But how do I say that to her? How can I deny her anything?

  “Don’t you want to see the castle? Or the museum?” My tone cajoles and I dare to touch her hand because I really hope it will sway her my direction.

  “There is no museum in Orvieto.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t you know anything?”

  I can feel my mouth tug up with a smile because I’m falling for her. She is so light and airy and easy-going. A world away from everything I know. I let her hand go and push it through my stiff brown hair, yanking it off my forehead.

  “The castle, then.” I give her a little nod and a quick smile, hoping she’ll give up this quest for the church.

  But she doesn’t. She grabs my fingers instead and holds them up into the light. “Strange,” she says, “You’re out in the daytime, yet you’re afraid of churches. Are you a vampire?”