Marked for Death

by Claire Ashgrove

  Her heart stutter-stepped before emotion made it swell. He was so proud, so damnably stubborn, and yet, tender at the most surprising moments. His apology was unnecessary—he knew she understood. But even at his angriest moments, he couldn’t carry the weight of wounding her.

  Solène rose to tiptoe and brushed a kiss across his cheek. “Come with me.”

  He complied with a nod. “But I make no promises about what might occur between Isolde and myself.”

  “I’m not asking for promises. Just a little faith.”

  ****

  Faith.

  Taran rolled the word around in his head as he followed Solène down the alley. Eons had passed since he’d last had faith in anything. Least of all his sister, Isolde. For a woman who was supposedly so in tune with the ancestors and Nyamah’s teachings, Isolde possessed a strange way of showing it. She’d turned her back the day Solène died, and Taran didn’t trust her motivations now. Help him? Not likely.

  He didn’t particularly want her help either. Even when they were getting along, even as children, she always regarded him with disdain. As if he could somehow ignore the pairing of his sire’s blood and his sabot birth. He’d been destined to follow in Drandar’s footsteps, while Isolde had been designed to carry Nyamah’s strength.

  He gritted his teeth as they stepped onto the back patio, and Isolde’s voice drifted through an open window on the second floor. Damn her and her inherent goodness. Damn her superiority.

  “Relax. Trust me,” Solène murmured. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and led him up the front steps.

  The warmth of her grip seeped in to soak Taran’s soul in comfort. Against his side, where he had tucked the scroll in haste, the burning ebbed. He could do this. Would do this for Solène’s sake. Drandar brought her back—Taran needed to know why. In a thousand centuries he’d never believe Drandar didn’t have a damning ulterior motive.

  Step by creaky step he followed Solène up the old staircase and into the long ballroom they had turned into a music room years ago. His boots clicked against the parquet floorboards that were in dire need of a good polishing. His gaze canvassed the dingy crystal chandeliers; he heard the laughter that had danced in time with violins. He saw the spot on the floor, where he had lost himself in Solène the day he purchased the house.

  Isolde rose from a leather sofa, her gaze narrowed on Taran. Behind her, a dark-haired man watched with wary caution. His speculative stare locked on Taran. To Taran’s surprise it neither narrowed nor darkened.

  “Taran, you can’t destroy that scroll.” Isolde skipped any pretense of greeting, and to her credit, she kept her tone neutral. But her failure to believe he wanted the ritual for any other means soured her complacent voice.

  Like the lash of a whip, annoyance cracked through him. Too many years of misaligned purposes, too many decades of being the outcast in this family boiled to the surface. “Destroy it? Is that all you think I am capable of? Have you ever once considered anything beyond your own motivations?”

  “Taran,” Solène cautioned quietly.

  He ignored her soft plea and scowled at his sister. “It was you, Isolde, who begged Solène to leave the first night you met her. You who stood against me when I couldn’t control the poison our sire gave us. You who have sat on your pious throne of lightness and cast your finger at me since the day you were old enough to speak!”

  Solène clutched at Taran’s arm as Isolde took a step backward. The man sitting on the couch—Angus, Taran presumed—tensed. As if he too believed the worst in Taran, that he might stoop to the unthinkable and raise a hand to his own flesh and blood. The reflex only pissed Taran off more.

  He thrust a hand at the window. “I was ten years old when you declared me demon spawn. Do you remember?” Bitterness crept in, sharpening his voice. “You were four. Evidently not old enough to remember you bear the same blood as I.”

  Isolde held his stare and her ground. Her cool silvery gaze offered no hint to her emotions, but the sudden charge of energy in the room marked the rise of her magical defenses. Solène pulled hard on his arm in attempts to steer him to a chair. “Taran, this is not the time.”

  He jerked out of her grasp. “It is the perfect time! She has judged me time and again. Not once did she offer aid. When I was out of my very mind, she turned my siblings—even Belen—against me and damned me to solitude! Now you expect me to believe she’s here to help? You perhaps. Never me. I will not give her this scroll!”

  “Taran,” Solène argued more forcefully. The dense field of power that pushed against his awareness increased. Energy that came from her, not Isolde.

  Taran blinked.

  Through his haze of fury, he saw the truth in Isolde’s posture. Her shoulders were not so proud, not so very rigid. Behind her silent silver stare, remorse flickered.

  “Sit down, we haven’t time for this.” Solène pointed at the chair. “If I have to put you there, I will.” Her own temper flushed her cheeks a beguiling shade of pink. “Drandar altered that ritual. Isolde is the only one who can undo his magic. You need her.”

  Stunned to the core of his being, he dropped onto the edge of the velvet seat.

  Chapter Ten

  One look at Taran’s face and the tumult of emotion that shone in his dark eyes cut Solène’s heart into ribbons. She hadn’t meant to blurt out everything so bluntly, had hoped to explain what she knew and let Taran draw his own conclusions. But in the heat of the rapidly deteriorating discussion, she couldn’t risk that his words would strike their intended mark and offend Isolde to the point she’d leave without ever learning why Solène had asked her to come.

  Now, as resentment and confusion drew Taran’s handsome features into tight lines, she wished she’d employed a little tact. She moved to the side of his chair and set her hand on his shoulder, offering what comfort she could.

  “What do you mean?” Isolde asked, equally confused. “Drandar altered my mother’s ritual? How is that possible?”

  Angus cleared his throat. “I thought Nyamah hid the scrolls.”

  Solène’s mind worked in double-time, clicking together facts and explanations that would tell enough and keep hidden what Taran couldn’t discover—the hopelessness of her fate. But before everything could link into cohesiveness, Taran’s keen mind connected the dots faster. He glanced at her pointedly. “How do you know Drandar altered the ritual?”

  Damn. Solène chewed on her lower lip. There was no getting around this. With a sigh that stirred the hair at her temple, she eased onto the arm of the chair. “Drandar brought me back. I’ve been…in regular contact with him…ever since.”

  As Isolde gasped, Solène paused to consider where else to take her explanation. Neither avenue looked promising.

  “Regular contact?” The hard edge crept back into Taran’s voice.

  “Yes,” she confessed with some discomfort.

  Taran’s gaze narrowed. “How regular?”

  “If that’s true, how do we know you’re telling us the truth?” Angus asked at the same time Taran spoke.

  In a moment of brief surprise, Taran’s eyes widened as if he recognized an unexpected ally. “You share my concern.”

  As the conversation took another unforeseen turn, both men shot rapid-fire questions at Solène, their voices becoming increasingly louder as they tried to speak over one another. She couldn’t get a word in edgewise, for all the commotion. What froze her tongue more, however, was Taran’s ability to believe she would let herself be so manipulated.

  No, she chastised. Not his ability to believe. That he was too close to the truth. She had allowed Drandar to manipulate her to a degree. Until Taran had stood face to face with her in the store, she’d convinced herself she could condemn him without hesitation. That his suffering would be justice for her murder.

  Rationalities Drandar implanted in her mind and she didn’t struggle to reject.

  “Stop!” Isolde’s voice rang out over the confusion. Like someone had cracked
a whip, the men fell silent. She cocked her head as she addressed Taran. “Do you really believe Solène would abide by Drandar’s wishes?”

  Taran’s gaze slid slowly to Solène. She shriveled under the weight of it. He knew her too well. Knew her strengths…and her weaknesses. And the evidence of her alignment with Drandar came from weaknesses she no longer suffered—that of her magic.

  “He’s right,” Solène blurted out before Taran could chastise himself for misconstruing her motives. She held his gaze, willing him to understand what she would never confess aloud—that she had faulted him, that for the first few days of life, she wanted him to die as well.

  “What?” Isolde cried in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

  It was Taran who came to her rescue. Taran who, at times, knew her better than she knew herself. He reached across his chest and covered her hand with his. “Can you blame her, Isolde? She’s been given the means to destroy me. If you did not recognize that a moment ago, your arcane insight is lacking.”

  “Not quite.” Solène retracted her hand and rose to her feet. She couldn’t have this discussion sitting down. Too much nervous energy urged her to move.

  “Not quite isn’t exactly the answer I expected to hear.” Angus leaned back in the sofa and folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me why I shouldn’t walk Isolde out that door.”

  Solène paced to the window, paused to look out over the streets of Paris. The city had changed so much…Sighing once more, she slowly turned around, her focus on Taran—the only one of the three whose understanding truly mattered. “My connection with the negative energies wasn’t designed to destroy you. That ability is an unintended consequence of needing to protect myself from you.”

  His slow nod spoke of acceptance.

  “Drandar’s purpose in bringing me back was to encourage you to do exactly what you presently intend. He wants you to perform that ritual.”

  “Why?” sister and brother both asked simultaneously.

  Solène gave Isolde a sad, shaky smile. “Because if he does, it will bind him to life. There will be no death for him, no judgment of the ancestors…and no end for Drandar. There are no more scrolls. Drandar has used Taran’s desire to escape the curse against him.”

  An oath hissed through Taran’s teeth. Inwardly, Solène winced. The next few truths would anger him further.

  They would also hurt like hell.

  “Nyamah orchestrated all of this. She knew from Cian’s birth what must be done. And she planned—”

  “The rest of us accordingly,” Isolde murmured. “I began to suspect it when I discovered the sixth scroll. The others were vague. Mine however…” She trailed off with a shake of her head. “Too many things defied coincidence.”

  “Our mother damned us to this existence?”

  At the undisguised pain in Taran’s voice, Solène winced. She crossed the room to him once more, ran her fingers through his long inky hair. Before she could continue with the things she’d learned from Drandar, Isolde voiced them for her.

  “There was no other choice, Taran.” In a surprising display of affection, she cast Taran a sympathetic smile. “I was angry for a while too, when I realized she deliberately put Angus’s son, Thomas, at risk. But as my connection to her, to the ancestors, has deepened I understand more than I want to. I’m not so unlike you, brother.”

  Taran let out a derisive snort. “We are nothing alike. Your birth was better planned.” Disdain morphed into a low snarl. “Now you tell me she has condemned me to this fate. Such a loving mother.”

  “Taran, my love.” Aching to take him into her arms and kiss away the layers of heartbreak, Solène slid her fingers through his hair once more. “There is hope. If there wasn’t, I wouldn’t have been forbidden to tell you about the alterations to the scroll. Isolde knows your mother’s incantations far better than anyone.”

  He said nothing, merely stared at a spot in the center of the floor. In that moment, she saw him as he must have been as a child—yearning for his mother’s attention, yet forced into solitude by the very handicap she gave him. An outcast amongst family. Chained to a life of solitude and struggle. Her heart twisted violently. She’d known, but never on this level. Never when he was raw and bleeding like he was now.

  “What do you need me to do?” Isolde asked.

  Solène swallowed down the cobwebs that gathered in her throat and blinked back threatening tears. “You have to discover what words don’t belong in that ritual. I can read her writing, but you’re the only one who understands it.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  Taran’s head snapped up and his gaze locked on Isolde. “Then I will kill her again.”

  Confused, Angus shook his head. “But she has the means of protecting herself.”

  “No,” Solène murmured. “Not for long.” Only her lack of fear would keep her alive after today.

  Isolde squeezed Angus’s knee affectionately. Her voice rang low and quiet. “Drandar will strip Solène’s increased power once he discovers she’s turned against him. She’ll be vulnerable to Taran.”

  Angus shot Solène a puzzled frown. “And if she corrects the ritual—”

  “Then I will die.” Taran stood. He drew the scroll from inside his jacket pocket and tossed it in Isolde’s lap, before crossing to the marble fireplace, where he picked up a porcelain horse figurine and turned it around in his hand. “We all know what the ancestors will decide on my day of judgment.”

  One by one, invisible fingers closed around Solène’s throat. He’d told her he had changed, that he’d lost control of himself—had he really strayed so far into darkness that the ancestors would judge him unworthy of mortal life?

  Had she just damned herself to eternity as Drandar’s slave to save a man already marked for death?

  “Take the scroll, Isolde.” Taran replaced the figurine and inclined his head toward the door. “You should get started. Samhain is tomorrow night.”

  That intangible fist around Solène’s throat squeezed harder. He wasn’t going to fight this. There was only one reason he wouldn’t—he wanted to die.

  Chapter Eleven

  Solène stared at Taran’s broad shoulders, dimly hearing the exchange between brother, sister, and Angus. Alone—she needed to talk with Taran alone. Now. And as time moved at a snail’s pace, the more urgent the need became. What had pushed him to the point he no longer wanted to be free of his curse?

  She forced a smile to her face as Isolde and Angus stood to leave. No need to let on that her stomach felt like she’d just gone two rounds on a tilt-a-wheel, first forward then backward. Isolde would only draw the waiting out longer if she had reason for further concern.

  To Solène’s surprise, Isolde didn’t move to embrace her. Instead, she crossed to Taran and set an elegant hand between his shoulder blades. His head snapped up, his body reflexively twisted a fraction away. Surprise filled the high arch of his brow. Before he could retract himself completely, Isolde embraced him.

  “I will do my best, Taran,” she offered quietly. “I owe this to you.”

  Slowly, as if he feared touching her might burn, Taran looped his arms around the sister he both despised and envied. For a moment, for one stutter-step of time, Solène observed the relief in the way he closed his eyes. But it vanished just as quickly, and Taran stepped out of his sister’s hug. He extended an uncertain hand toward Angus, who grasped it, covered it with his other hand, and shook firmly.

  Tears blurred Solène’s vision, and her smile took on genuine meaning. A lifetime of distance, breached now by the very same curse that divided them.

  Isolde returned Solène’s smile. “I’ll keep you both posted. We’re staying at the Chateau Frontenac. If anything…happens…phone us.”

  Solène nodded as Angus slid his hand into Isolde’s and escorted her through the doorway, leaving Solène alone with Taran in ominous silence. Her heart clanged erratically. He made no move to leave his hunched-over position at the mantel.


  “Taran?” she whispered in an unsteady voice.

  He lifted his head. Through the mirror, his gaze latched with hers. Sorrow and remorse shadowed those luminous dark eyes, telling Solène her assumption had been correct. Drawn to him by a force that mirrored gravity, she crossed to his side and lifted a hand to his shoulder. Uncertainty, however, made her withdraw her fingertips before they grazed the leather of his jacket.

  She studied the drawn lines of his profile. “Why do you want to die?”

  “Want?” A soft scoff escaped him. He turned and moved to the chair he’d abandoned earlier. “There’s no want, any longer. It is decreed. You know—”

  “Stop.” With a sharp shake of her head, she frowned. “You were not so cold the last time we conversed in this room. I don’t want your bravado, Taran. Tell me what’s in your heart.”

  Taran heaved a sigh and pushed a hand through his long black hair. His gaze strayed away from her, to the window on the far side of the room. Unable to tolerate the physical distance that amplified his emotional withdrawal, Solène moved to his side. Taking one hand in hers, she crouched at his knee. “Talk to me. This distance between us isn’t right.”

  “I intended to kill you.” Quiet and reflective, he kept his gaze fastened on the thin sheers.

  “I know. But we’ve moved beyond that. Or so I thought.”

  “After…what happened…” He trailed off, his throat working visibly as he swallowed. When he pulled his stare away from the window and turned it on her, the corners of his eyes glistened with gathered moisture. Tears that made her own pool even more.

  Taran tugged his hand free from hers and gently cupped the side of her face. His thumb stroked her cheek. Tenderness softened the harsh shadows in his expression. “It has been a miserable existence without you.”

  His hoarse whisper sent hot droplets trickling down her cheeks. The gentle back and forth glide of his thumb swept dampness across her skin. She blinked to clear her vision, and rubbed her cheek against his callused palm.