Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1)

by Mason, Nina

  He flipped her over, let go of her ankles, and slugged her in the face. “Shut up, you stupid bitch,” he growled. “I’d rather you were conscious when I fuck you, but I’ll knock you out if I have to.”

  Her cheek and jaw throbbed where he’d slugged her and she could taste blood in her mouth. She hissed and showed him her fangs.

  “Christ,” he said, “what are you? Not human, that’s for sure. I got a hard-on the second I smelled your blood.”

  He clawed at her jeans, shredding the denim with ease. She kicked and flailed, but to no avail. He grabbed her ankles again and, as he pulled her into the bushes, her tattered clothes fell away.

  Getting down on all fours, he crawled over her. As he sank his fangs into her neck, he tore off her panties. A scream ripped from her throat as he ruthlessly clawed her vulva.

  He made rutting sounds of gratification as he fed, then lifted his face and looked hard at her, his eyes fierce and vicious, his snout and teeth covered in her blood. His fangs were twice as big as hers.

  “Holy fuck.” His eyelids fluttered. “You taste so good, I just creamed myself. What the hell are you?”

  Remembering her power at last, she squeezed shut her eyes, pictured herself as Nala, and said the magic words three times in rapid succession. Fee-faw. Fee-faw. Fee-faw.

  Almost at once, her body began to twist and reshape and, soon, the creep found himself tangling not with a befanged female faery, but with a lioness. With a ferocious roar, she swiped her claws across his shoulder, shredding pelt and drawing blood. He yelped, jumped to his feet, and fled into the swamp, clearly seeing no further advantage in tangling with her.

  Relieved though still shaken, Vanessa spoke the counter spell and just sat there for several minutes trembling. When she felt more in control, she searched for her keys without success. Shit, she was stranded in the swamp with no clothes. What the hell was she going to do?

  Her phone was in the car, which was locked. There also was a blanket in the trunk. Though the rental agency wouldn’t like it, she’d have to break a window. She looked around for a rock. Finding one of sufficient size, she threw it at the driver’s side window. The glass shattered into granules.

  She reached into the car, unlocked the door, and opened the trunk. After wrapping the blanket around her, she got in and picked up her phone. More than anything, she wanted to call Callum. Not for help, but for comfort.

  What made me think I could handle myself here all alone?

  Rather than call her lion, she started to weep. When she’d cried herself out, she dried her eyes and struggled to collect herself enough to think who to call to get her out of this mess. The police? And say what? She could hardly tell them the truth. A story like hers would be rewarded with a one-way ticket to the loony bin. Calling for roadside assistance was out, too, given her state of undress. Could she really see herself climbing into some stranger’s vehicle wearing only a blanket? Hell, no. She’d had enough unwanted male attention for one night, thank you very much.

  That left only one option. Her last resort. Beau. She’d have to leave out the parts about hunting in the bayou and shifting to frighten off her attacker, but at least he’d believe her about the wolfman. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she placed the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Beau? It’s Vanessa.”

  “Well, hello there.” He sounded happy to hear from her, which was good. “Is everything all right?”

  Chewing her lower lip, she chose her words with care. “Actually, it isn’t. I’m out by the swamp and lost my keys.” Pausing, she took another deep breath, this time to bolster her courage. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you be good enough to come and get me?” Timidly, she added, “And maybe bring me some clothes?”

  He coughed. “Did I hear you right? Did you just say bring you clothes?”

  “Um, yeah. I know, it sounds strange…but not half as strange as what happened to me.”

  She paused and licked her lips, unsure how to describe the attack.

  “Are you going to tell me?” he prodded.

  She heaved a ragged sigh. “Yes, but first I have a question.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Are there any werewolves in the area?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. “You were attacked by a werewolf?”

  “I’m not sure what he was, but he was definitely lupine in nature.”

  “Can you describe him in more detail?”

  She shuddered as she recalled the beast’s appearance from her memory. “Well…he had the body of a human, only hairier, the head of a wolf, glowing red eyes, and razor sharp teeth.”

  “Sounds like a rougarou.”

  “What’s a rougarou?”

  “A wolfman who roams the swamps around Louisiana. It’s a condition brought on by a curse, which can only be lifted by passing it on.”

  Vanessa, not liking the sound of that, swallowed hard. “Passing it on how, exactly?”

  “Depends on who you ask,” he replied. “Some folks say a person can turn into a rougarou just by seeing one, while others say he needs to drink your blood to pass the curse along. And then there’s the cautionary tales…”

  “Cautionary tales?”

  “Yeah. The stories Cajuns tell their kids to make them behave, like how the rougarou will get them if they disobey their parents or break Lent.”

  That sounded pretty far-fetched to Vanessa, but she couldn’t so easily dismiss the part about passing on the curse by drinking someone’s blood. She just hoped being faery exempted her.

  “Did you get any pictures?” Beau asked.

  “I’m afraid not. My phone was in the car…and even if I had it with me, I was too busy fighting him off to use the camera.”

  “What a shame.” After a pregnant pause, he asked, “Did he hurt you? Did he drink your blood? Did he…well, violate you?”

  “He drank my blood, but he didn’t rape me—though not for lack of trying, believe me.”

  “Jesus, you poor kid. How’d you get rid of him?”

  “I, em, picked up a rock,” she said, thinking fast, “and hit him in the head.”

  “Good thinking, sweetheart. Despite the stories of the creatures passing along the curse, nobody’s ever been attacked by a rougarou and survived.”

  Worry tightened her gut. Was he suspicious? “I guess I was lucky, huh?”

  “I’ll say. And to think, you don’t even wear a gris-gris for protection.”

  “Maybe I should get one…”

  “I’ve got an extra. If you want, I’ll bring along.”

  “That would be great.”

  There was a pause before he said in a tone radiating concern, “Vanessa…are you all right?”

  “I will be.” Her lower lip trembled as a tear rolled down her cheek. “Can you come and get me, please?”

  “Sure thing, sweetheart. Just tell me where you are and I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  Not really knowing where she was, she directed him as best she could. He stayed on the phone with her while he got into his car and set out to look for her.

  They stayed on the phone until she saw his headlamps in the rear-view mirror. Disconnecting the call, she checked to be sure her blanket covered her private parts. Thankfully, the wounds inflicted by the rougarou had already healed.

  She waited, gut like a fist, as Beau approached the car. After suggesting he drive her home and come back tomorrow with a locksmith, he very graciously helped her out of the Taurus and into his Volvo. As she carefully buckled her seatbelt, he got in behind the wheel. When both of them were settled, he held out to her the gris-gris he’d promised to bring along.

  “Here you go,” he said. “One gris-gris talisman to keep supernatural predators at bay.”

  She reached for the charm, then hesitated. Even from where she sat, the pouch smelled like a graveyard.

  He moved the talisman closer to her. “Go on. Take it.”

>   With reluctance, she did. It was warm to the touch, which startled her a little. It also felt lumpy and crunchy. What the hell was in it? Before she could ask, her fingers began to burn like she was holding a lit flame. What the hell? Dropping the pouch, she shot him a look of alarm.

  He regarded her darkly. “That’s what I thought.”

  Worry knotted her gut as she sucked on her smarting fingers. “Thought about what?”

  “That it burned you tells me all I need to know,” he said, sounding rather ominous as he reached to retrieve the dropped talisman.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you being like your friend Lord Lyon,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You have to be. It’s the only way to explain how you survived the attack. And healed so fast.”

  “Are you mad?” She chased the question with a cool laugh that in no way matched her inner temperature.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She forced another dismissive laugh, still hoping to diffuse the situation. “Lord Lyon is a normal person, just like you or I.”

  “Nice try, but I know better…and so do you.”

  She eyed him with feigned disbelief as she fought to keep her cool. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He laughed. “Don’t mistake my drawl for stupidity, sweetheart. I sent you to Scotland to confirm what I already knew. Lyon is the vampire of Barrogill, only he’s not quite a vampire, is he?”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied. “I found no evidence of a vampire, as I told you before, and, furthermore, not a scrap of evidence to suggest Callum Lyon was anything more than an ordinary man.”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, which means, you know his secret as well as I do. What I can’t figure out is why he turned you…and then sent you back here to further prove what I already know.”

  She tried to lock gazes, hoping to erase his memory or, at the very least, to find out what he knew. Though Callum hadn’t taught her to use her mental powers, she prayed they might come naturally.

  Beau met her gaze head-on and laughed. “Go ahead. Try to mess with my mind the way your boyfriend did. It won’t work as long as I’m wearing my talisman. That’s how I know he’s supernatural, because he tried to erase my memory.”

  She knew she shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t risk confirming his suspicions, but she had to know. “Why would Callum try to wipe your memory?”

  “We were at a conference on the occult,” he said. “Not together, of course, but there at the same time. I took my last assistant, hoping to get closer if you catch my drift. But she had other ideas—ideas involving a certain Scottish Adonis we both know who was there to give a talk and sign books. It fried my ass, let me tell you. I mean, how was I supposed to compete with someone who looks like he swung down from Mt. Olympus on a star? So, I did the only thing I could. I raised the stakes by telling the little bitch I’d fire her and see to it she never got another job if she didn’t spread her legs.”

  Vanessa bristled, reviled but still curious. “That doesn’t explain why Callum would try to wipe your memory.”

  “Let me finish,” he said, his tone gruff and impatient. “We were in the bar. Me and the girl. When I started to make my move, Goldilocks Lyon came to her rescue. At breakfast the next morning, I noticed the bite on her neck—a twin of the one he gave you, I might add. When I later confronted him with my suspicions, he tried to glamor me…or whatever the hell your kind calls that eraser-stare of yours.”

  “You can’t prove anything.”

  She didn’t like the gleam in his eye as he said, “I don’t need to. I only need to cast suspicion on him by serving you to the media on a silver platter. And probably make a small fortune in the bargain, given how hungry the jackals are for proof of the existence of supernaturals.”

  If she was exposed, it would ruin her life and Callum’s political career, which she couldn’t let happen. But how to stop Beau? She could see only two options, neither of which thrilled her. The first was to kill him. The second was to give him what he wanted. Because, clearly, blackmail was his intent.

  Otherwise, why not just go straight to the press?

  Hands shaking, she pulled the blanket tighter around her. “What do you want to keep quiet?”

  “Can’t you guess, sweetheart?”

  She could. “Sex in exchange for your silence?”

  He ran a finger under the edge of the blanket and teased her left nipple until it stood at attention. “Much as I’d like to fuck you, that’s not at the top of my list.”

  “Then what is?” She curtailed her relief until she heard what was.

  “Everlasting life.”

  Now feeling like a cornered animal, she revisited option number one. Could she kill him and live with herself?

  Tempted as she was, the answer was a resounding no.

  “Fine.”

  “Excellent.” He swept the hand on her thigh up her body, pushed the blanket out of the way, and began fondling her left breast. “We can fuck while you’re turning me. That way, I can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Which two birds?”

  “Immortality and revenge. Lyon’s a Leo. He won’t like knowing I’ve had his mate. Won’t like it one little bit, I’ll bet.”

  She bit her lip and looked away, tears welling in her eyes. This was all her fault. She’d left Callum to protect her freedom and only ended up putting herself in chains.

  Beau pinched her nipple, recalling her attention. “Oh, and don’t even think about telling anyone about our arrangement…or skipping out on me. Because I’ve already put a contingency plan in place. You so much as squeak about our deal and the media gets the whole sordid story faster than you can say Mardi Gras.”

  Chapter 16

  Back in Scotland, Callum felt as on edge as he had a Flodden Field when he pushed through the door into the offices of the Caithness Crier. A fresh-faced lass with ginger hair looked up from the reception desk, meeting his entry with striking blue eyes.

  “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”

  “I’m Callum Lyon, here to see Miranda Hornsby.”

  The reporter had jumped at Duncan’s offer of an interview with his candidate of choice.

  “I’ll let Randy know you’re here.” The receptionist pointed toward a row of nearby chairs. “Please have a seat while you wait.”

  Before sitting, he grabbed an outdated issue of People magazine. Thumbing through the flimsy pages of celebrity faces, he recognized none of them. After about five minutes, he heard a velvety voice speak his name. Looking up, he found Miranda Hornsby’s big charcoal eyes peering back at him from under sweeping dark lashes.

  Tossing the magazine on the table, he sprang to his feet and extended his hand. She took it, but held it rather than shaking it. “It’s nice to see you again, gorgeous.”

  Alarm and titillation prickled in unison. Randy Hornsby, true to her name, wanted more than an interview. Endeavoring to get off on the right foot, he allowed her to keep his hand as he drank her in. She had on a tight, short skirt and a lightweight knit top. Through the clinging fabric, he could see the outline of a black lace bra.

  “Should we do it here or go somewhere?”

  The question unnerved him, until he realized she meant the interview. Pheromones wafted off her like steam from a Christmas pudding. His lust stirred, calling blood to his cock. To maintain the appearance of nonchalance, he shrugged and said, “Either way.”

  She let go of his hand, but her eyes still held his. “In that case, let’s go down the row for a coffee.” She batted her long lashes. “Or would you prefer something harder?”

  He would, actually, but wasn’t sure drinking was wise. While the alcohol would take the edge off his cravings, it would also lower his inhibitions. Randy Hornsby was a drug in an alluring package, and he was an addict in need of a
fix. If he didn’t want to tumble into temptation, he’d best keep up his guard.

  “Coffee, I think.”

  She led the way out of the newspaper office. He followed, trying not to stare at her shapely arse. It wasn’t easy given the tightness of her skirt and the way she was swinging her hips like a hypnotist’s pendulum. He tried to imagine it was Vanessa’s backside, but that only made things worse. The fantasy also gave him pain.

  Biting his lip, he averted his gaze and tried to think of something unappealing to temper his lust. Like all the speeches he’d be giving over the next few weeks, starting with tomorrow’s announcing his intention to run against Sinclair.

  Miss Hornsby, come to think of it, had not yet run the promised take-down piece. Why? As he opened his mouth to ask, she stopped short before the door of a café. He ran smack into her. Taking advantage of the moment, she pressed a hip against his crotch. A smile stole across her lips as she nudged his half-hard manhood meaningfully.

  “Well, hello there.” She fluttered her lashes again. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  He swallowed, equal parts aroused and horrified. Stepping back, he let out a tense chuckle. What could he say? He had even less control over his cock than his heart. He needed to get laid and his butterfly had flown away. Had he been mistaken in her? Had she played him? Her failure to call only deepened his suspicions he’d been made a fool of.

  As Miranda pushed through the door and made her way to the counter, he stuck to her heels. Try as he might, his gaze kept slipping to the curvaceous swell under that tight wee skirt of hers. What was she wearing under there? As he scanned for panty lines—or, better yet, garters—his cock pulsed with interest.

  She ordered a skinny latte; he a black coffee with a shot of espresso, praying the caffeine would tether his lust. They took their beverages to an out-of-the-way table. She sat across from him, set down her cup, and pulled out her notebook.

  He sipped his coffee, doing his best to ignore its bitterness and the persistent ache in his groin. His heart ached, too. Try as he might to fight his need for sex, his body wouldn’t be denied.