by Julie Leto
“Your sister’s diary. She knew Rogan best, didn’t she? Perhaps the answer to unraveling the curse is within those pages. Stop using the magic, Damon, before it corrupts you.”
Damon chuckled ominously. “Too late.”
21
Despite the flash of fear in Alexa’s eyes—or perhaps because of it—Damon pressed his hand against the thin book and opened it to the first page. The handwriting looked familiar, but the pages were so white, he was nearly blinded. He tossed the book back at her. “This is not Sarina’s journal.”
“Not the original, no,” she replied, pushing the oddly bound book back at him. “It’s what we call a copy. But the words are hers, Damon. Read it.”
He grabbed the journal and marched to the head of the table. Even without his attention, the mosaic tiles continued to fly into place. Throwing himself into a chair, he tore open the book and started to read.
Word by word, the fire of resentment burning within him lessened. His breathing came easier. His stomach no longer cramped from pent-up rage. As if Sarina sat beside him at the hearth, some random fairy tale he’d brought her from London clutched to her chest as she recounted to him the adventures of the hero within, his sister sprang to life. Wide-eyed. Naive. And for the most part, lonely.
He saw his name. He recognized the Romani word for “brother.” And then the one for “sad.” She described him through her eyes, and the assessment stabbed at him just as violently as the sword he’d thrust into Rogan’s portrait centuries ago. Never around for long. Never sparing her more than an hour’s time. And though he brought her fine presents, he never, ever gave in to her entreaties to return with him to England. She longed to see the estates their father held and meet the glorious lords and ladies of the king’s court.
Such optimism and yearning turned his stomach. She’d had no idea how rejected she would have been, simply because of the dark hair and olive skin that marked her as a Gypsy.
Halfway through, he closed the copy and placed it gingerly on the table. At that moment, Alexa slid her hands onto his shoulders.
“You don’t need to use the magic, Damon. We can find the answer another way.”
He shook his head, even as her fingers dug into his muscles and worked the tension from his neck. “My sister’s words are a welcome respite.” He smoothed the barren cover with his fingers, regret swelling within him. “Yet they only remind me of my objective on the night I rode with my brothers into the storm, trying to save her from the sorcerer I’d brought into her life. How much did you read?”
“Not much. Her handwriting isn’t easy to decipher and she uses a lot of words I don’t understand.”
“Romani words,” Damon told her. “Shortly after my father arrived in Valoren, a beautiful widow named Alyse captured his heart. My brothers and I rebelled against their union…until she bore him a son. What a wastrel Rafe was. And then, Sarina.” He swallowed thickly, casting off the sentimental memories. “She had a sharp tongue in any language. She wasn’t happy that I wouldn’t take her to London. Even now, I can hear her tirades. She accused me of trying to keep her prisoner…”
The irony slammed him hard. Hadn’t he done just that? Hadn’t he denied, over and over, each of Sarina’s heartfelt requests for freedom from Valoren and her mother’s ever-watchful eye? Hadn’t she begged him to recount, in painful detail, each and every ball and soiree he’d attended?
Had she, thus denied, entreated Rogan to conjure the curse as retribution for his cold denials?
Suddenly, Alexa’s hands were upon his, her palms flat over his knuckles.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.
Forlorn regret gripped his insides. “No, you do—”
“You think she asked Rogan to do this to you. To make you pay for the way you treated her.”
“I loved her,” he admitted.
“Of course you did. And you were protecting her. You knew what would happen if you brought a Gypsy girl, particularly one half British, to court. Your father would have been reviled. Likely, no one in England even knew he’d taken a Gypsy wife, did they? Sarina would have been marked as illegitimate. Or worse.”
He stared at her, amazed at her keen understanding.
“Don’t be so surprised,” she said. “I can read some of the diary and I do know a little about history, remember? And better than anyone, I understand the yearnings of a young girl bound by her position and birth. You told me enough about Valoren for me to put the pieces together. I understood enough of the diary to know that her feelings for you weren’t any more vindictive or hateful than the swipes my stepbrother and I toss at each other all the time. I might not like Jacob sometimes, but I love him. He’s my only family. I’d never want him hurt. I know he feels the same way about me.”
Damon marveled at her even tone, her quiet confidence. Truth be told, Damon knew very little of the workings of a woman’s heart, be it sister, wife or mistress. Even his mother, a slave to her station, had spent little time with her children preceding her death, and his stepmother, though open and loving to Rafe and Sarina, the children she’d borne, seemed afraid to truly love her husband’s British sons. Could Alexa know more about these matters than he?
“You’re so certain?”
She smiled softly. “I’m not certain, no. But I can’t imagine that the young girl who fell under the spell of a man you yourself admit was charming and charismatic harbored the hatred it would take to banish her own brother into a painting. She was angry with you and your brothers, Damon. She didn’t hate you.”
Pulling away from Alexa’s touch, he pushed the diary aside. “Then the journal is of no use. The only way to unravel this curse is through the magic itself.”
“At what price?” She leaned down and retrieved her bag from beneath her chair. “I have a better idea.”
Out of her haversack, she pulled a slim black case.
A grin, devilish and cocky, tilted the corner of her mouth. For the first time since this morning, his anger surrendered to desire. He instantly noticed how the bodice of her gown dipped nearly to her navel, and his entire body tightened in carnal response. If using the magic made him forget his own needs, he clearly needed to find another way to accomplish his goal.
She laid the case gently on the tabletop and flipped a lever that opened the top. After she pressed a button on the side, a green light sparked, and then suddenly, the inside of the top glowed bright blue.
“What is that?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“This, Sir Damon, is a little bit of magic we in the twenty-first century like to call the Internet.”
“Topher Pyle? Man, I ain’t seen that creep in weeks.”
Cat threw back her scotch, the liquid burning down her throat as she boldly eyed the bartender. She’d already found out the man’s name was Rock. She’d hoped he wasn’t as stupid as one, but so far, things weren’t looking good.
“Bullshit,” she responded.
Rock’s lip curled up at the corner. “You calling me a liar?”
Cat leaned forward, and beside her she felt Ben tense. The bartender, a large man with a patch where one eye should have been and a scar running a jagged edge all around his chin, glanced at Ben, who held up his hands as if her impertinence was none of his affair.
She grabbed the bartender by his marred chin and turned his eye back to her. “Don’t look at him. He’s just here for the beer. I’m the one who doesn’t believe the load of shit you just handed me. If I shell out fifty bucks more for this piss you call booze, you think you might remember something important?”
The man yanked out of her grip. “You’re a crazy bitch.”
She stepped down from the bar. “I’ve been called worse by scarier assholes than you.”
The huge man shot forward, but Ben jumped between them, kicking back his barstool, which skidded across the sawdust-covered floor. Funny how Professor Rousseau Jr. could look harmlessly charming one minute and the next, he’s standing with his hands palm
forward—and the sweet side of a .357 magnum sticking convincingly out of his waistband.
“The lady offered you an extra fifty,” Ben said, his tone calm.
Rock’s one dark eye watched Ben’s gun as if it might jump out and do flips. Or deposit a bullet in his forehead.
“Ain’t worth it,” Rock spat.
“Got someone else who’s going to tip you so generously tonight just for information about some prick who probably stiffed you for his tab last time he was here?”
That had been a guess, though Rock’s pierced eyebrow rose enough to reveal that she’d hit the mark.
The sleazy dive bar Amber had directed them to was nearly deserted. A few bikers lined up around a faded pool table while two guys played for bragging rights and dollar beers. A couple of drunks gnawed cheap cigars in a corner. A guy in a stark white suit and many gold chains conducted business from a cell phone in the corner, oblivious to the fact that his fashion statement was older than he was. Cat doubted any of the college crowd Austin was famous for went anywhere near this joint ordinarily, yet this was the address Amber had provided for the guy who’d paid her for an introduction to Paschal. She must have been slumming.
Unless, of course, she’d been playing them.
But Cat didn’t think that was the case. Since she’d hooked up with Ben, her psychic abilities had intensified in ways they hadn’t since she lived with her grandparents. She’d known Amber was telling the truth with the same certainty that she knew this bozo bartender was lying through his crooked teeth.
“Forget it,” she said, tossing a couple of bills on the bar. “Old Rock here doesn’t know an opportunity when he hears one. His loss, not mine. Someone else with info on Pyle will want our money.”
“No, wait.” The bartender crowded forward, his single eye glinting both ways to ensure they weren’t overheard. “Look, Topher hangs out with real freaks. They rolled into town a few weeks ago and scared off my regulars. They split day before yesterday and I don’t want ’em back here, got it?”
Cat slid back into her seat. Ben tossed her a cocky smile over his shoulder.
“Can’t guarantee Topher won’t come back,” Ben said, finishing his bottled beer. “But we won’t issue him an invitation. He’s got something we want, that’s it.”
The bartender frowned. “Yeah, well, I’ve got something of his. Maybe you can work out a trade.”
Dipping down beneath the bar, the guy emerged with a scarred leather jacket, which he threw over the battered bar. “He left it here the other night. One of his pals got a phone call and they shot out of here like bats outta hell.”
“Know where he lives?” Cat asked.
“Man, this joint ain’t Cheers,” Rock sniped. “Besides, Topher ain’t local. Rental plates on his truck. Drives around with four other freaks, all dressed in black and coats that don’t jibe with the weather. Earrings. Black lipstick. Tattoos on their faces. Vampires, if you ask me.”
“A bunch of Goth kids scared off your bikers?” Cat asked.
“Weirdest shit you ever saw,” Rock said with a nod. “Even tough-as-nails bikers don’t want to mess with sociopaths, got me? Guys like these liable to blow your brains out only seconds before they do the same to each other. I’m glad they’ve split. Here,” Rock said, tossing the jacket at Ben, “take it. Do whatever, but don’t lead that jerk’s ass back here.”
Cat laid a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. “We won’t, but if he shows up, his jacket was stolen and you never saw us.”
Rock nodded, then, with a greedy sneer, snatched the C-note and turned away as if they’d never walked inside.
She followed Ben out the door. Once outside, she stopped suddenly, grabbed Ben by the sleeve and pushed him against the wall.
His smile was cocky, his body instantly hard. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“Sorry,” she said, not really meaning it. “I can’t help it. Your mean cowboy act back there just made me hot.”
She pressed her mouth against his and the blast of sensation nearly melted Cat from the inside out. Tense and powerful from the density of his biceps to the firm feel of his chest against hers, Ben’s body proved every inch as marvelous as she imagined. She leaned wholly against him, steaming the air around them and leaving little oxygen to feed her lungs. She fed on him instead, tearing her hands into his hair, only barely registering the stab from the zipper of Topher’s jacket indenting her skin.
The moment her focus shifted to the jacket, a wave of sensation—decidedly not sexual—crashed over her. She pulled away from Ben as if drowning. Anxiety. Fear. Anger. Emotions so strong, they yanked the lust from her body, leaving a striking pain in their wake.
“Cat?”
Ben grabbed her by the shoulders and led her away from the bar. At the car, he tossed the jacket into the backseat, and suddenly she was able to breathe.
“What happened?”
She shook her head, trying to regain her equilibrium. God, what had just happened? A premonition? She hadn’t had an emotional reaction like that since…since she’d been a young girl on the verge of puberty, coming into her psychic abilities in haphazard spurts. She’d learned to ignore her gift, pushing the ability deep inside her where it could do no harm.
But now, maybe it could do some good. Was she willing to take the chance?
“The jacket,” she said, breathless. “I felt…something. I’m guessing emotions of the guy who owned it. He’s pissed off. Royally. And he’s afraid he’s going to lose something he wants very badly.”
“Like my father?”
She shook her head, trying to clear the confusion streaming at her from all angles, all sides. She didn’t have a clear picture, just impressions.
“I’m not sure, and unfortunately, I know only one way to find out.”
“What way is that?” Ben asked, helping her to the passenger side, opening the door and graciously guiding her in.
Cat took a deep breath. She couldn’t believe she was going to do this—she couldn’t believe that after all this time, she was willing to go this far. One glance up at Ben’s expectant eyes told her she had no choice. She could help him find his father. But first, she had to take a very wild leap into a world she’d eschewed for many years.
“Do you know what a botánica is?” she asked.
Ben eyed her suspiciously. “A store where you buy supplies for certain religious rites.”
She nodded. “Like voodoo and Santería. You need to find the nearest one. Fast. Before I lose what might be our only connection to your father.”
22
Damon stared at the screen, motionless. He had no idea how long he’d concentrated on the words there, but he knew that when he and Alexa had finally found a listing for the Forsyth family on a…Web site…tracing the lineage of families associated with the House of Lords, she had still been awake. Now she slept in the chair beside him, her head resting against her arms on the table, the flames from the hearth adding streaks of fire to her glossy red hair.
His gaze returned to the numbers beside his father’s name. Born 1684. Died 1767. He’d lived twenty years after the disappearance of his sons, to the ripe age of eighty two. Below his name appeared each of his male offspring born to his first wife, Margaret. Damon. Aiden. Colin. The twins, Logan and Paxton. No mention of Rafe. And of course, none of Sarina or her gypsy mother, Alyse.
And all the sons, including himself, bore a death date of 1747.
His heart ached. Had none of his brothers survived the battle? Had they died at the hands of King George II’s mercenaries or in battle with Rogan? The document did not say. And of course, for all he knew, his brothers had simply been cursed as he had.
This brought him no comfort.
He took a measure of relief from knowing that his father did not die in the cellar of the Valoren home. Had he searched endlessly for his sons, or had he returned to England to serve the Crown until he died? Damon had once aspired to nothing more. But now? Damon could afford to
serve no one but himself and his burgeoning desire to piece together all the fragments of his past.
“Have you googled Rogan yet?”
Alexa’s voice, thick with sleepiness, startled him. She hadn’t moved a muscle. Her hair was a curtain over her face, but through the strands, he saw her eyes flutter open.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I’m catnapping,” she replied, shaking her hair out of her way so the dying embers of the fire behind him glistened in her emerald eyes. “I showed you how to google.” She yawned. “Didn’t you look him up?”
Damon closed the top of the contraption he’d learned was called a laptop computer. The origin of the word perplexed him since Alexa warned him that the lap wasn’t a sturdy place to balance such a delicate instrument.
But she certainly hadn’t been exaggerating about the magical quality of the thing. The library at Alexandria could not have held half the information available with the click of a button here, the typing of a word there. He’d had trouble adjusting to modern American spellings but, with her help, had found the academic Web site where he’d first discovered his father’s name. Clicking subsequent “links,” as she called them, led him to the family tree.
And since she had shown him how to “google” not only his family, but hers, the moment she’d drifted to sleep, he’d revisited the many pages that referenced her life story. He now knew what a car looked like—particularly after being squashed by a monstrous vehicle called a semitrailer truck. He’d studied the mangled steel in horror, trying to imagine her body being pulled from the wreckage. In many ways, she’d cheated death more than he. All he’d had to do was remain in a painting for two hundred and sixty years. She’d had her body stitched back together inch by bloody inch.
“I do not wish to know more of Rogan,” he answered.
She frowned. “That isn’t very smart. ‘Know thy enemy’ is the first rule of business.”