Phantom Pleasures

by Julie Leto

  He eyed her carefully and spied a hint of secrecy lingering in her eyes. “Then I suppose you researched him yourself before you came here tonight.”

  Lifting herself heavily off the table, she stretched and yawned again, her bodice nearly falling open as her back arched. He glanced aside. He had no time for dalliance tonight, despite the wicked desire coursing through him at the sight of her in such a decadent black silk gown. He hadn’t had much time to explore the change in fashion from his century to this one, but if all women dressed like her, he had no trouble understanding why the female gender seemed to now rule the roost.

  “Of course I did,” she replied. “But I couldn’t find a damned thing. You didn’t give me much to go on.”

  “I do not know much beyond my personal interactions with the man,” he replied. “Rogan shrouded himself in mystery. I do not even know his family name. The man wore inscrutability around him like a cloak. If one had to ask questions of his past and family, one was considered to not be ‘in the know,’ so to speak. Everyone assumed that everyone else knew the man’s history, yet even the gossips were stumped. When someone dared question him too closely, he turned on his considerable charm until the queries were forgotten.”

  “That may have worked with others, but how did it with you?”

  Damon smirked. “I didn’t wish to know more. Not knowing was more intriguing.”

  “But once he went to Valoren with you, he must have told you something. Your father would have asked—”

  “Of course my father asked, and Rogan’s replies were rife with words that answered nothing. He was a world traveler, the son of the earth itself and a follower of the moon. The Gypsies loved him, embraced him, despite his high-born wealth. I highly suspected he was a Gypsy himself who had somehow come into a massive fortune.”

  “So he had no past, but he had money?”

  “An unending supply of gold, which made keeping his secrets all the easier.” Damon slid the laptop toward her. Dawn would soon approach. He had an hour, perhaps two, with Alexa before he faded from sight and needed rest. Since he had not used magic since her arrival, the anger within him remained at bay. And yet, he knew the peace could not last. He’d tried to reach his goal her way, but they’d accomplished nothing except establishing that his brothers had also disappeared or died the same night as he did—and that Sarina more than likely had never been found. Now more than ever, he had to return to his original plan—conjuring up the entirety of Rogan’s castle in order to search for the source of his magic so he could set himself free.

  “I appreciate your concern, Alexa, but there is only one way for me to discover the secret to Rogan’s curse. I must use the magic.”

  Her arm shot out and her fingers clasped his wrist. “You can’t. The magic is infecting you. Maybe you’ll find the magical source, but who will you be once you’re free?”

  He extricated himself as gently as possible. “The consequences matter not. Only the outcome. I cannot exist this way forever.”

  Sliding his chair away from the table, he focused on the mosaic, one of the many once scattered throughout the castle. The scene seemed ordinary—a day in the life of the Umgeben village Gypsies. When Rogan didn’t take his meals in his private rooms, he often arranged dinner in the main hall. He invited the Gypsies into his fortress so he could revel not only in their adoration but in their tradition and music.

  Their magic.

  Damon wandered to the fire and stared into the flames. He had to continue re-creating the castle. The infection of evil would invade him, but he’d fight the effects as best he could. But not with Alexa anywhere near him.

  He turned to send her away and she was already standing behind him.

  “I’m not going,” she declared, arms crossed.

  “Daylight beckons, my lady. I know you have business to attend to.” He reached forward to touch the triangle of gold dangling around her neck, but she jerked away.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. The necklace is mine now. It allows me entrance to my castle, and I’m not about to give that up. You can try and take it from me again,” she challenged, loosening her arms by her sides, though he wasn’t fooled by her casual stance. She was ready to fight for the talisman, even against him. He knew he could overcome her, but at what price?

  “I will not take it, but I will warn you that with this sunrise, you must leave and not return to the castle. It will not be safe.”

  “No can do,” she replied. “I won’t let you destroy yourself.”

  “You mean, what’s left of me.”

  She arched a brow, then sidled forward until her body pressed against his. “You’re all the man I need.”

  Humor and lust battled within the emerald depths of her irises, but Damon had to remain strong in his conviction. “In the night, yes. But in the light of day, I’m no more than a shadow. I cannot exist this way, Alexa. Being locked in the painting—aware, yet unaware—was easier than knowing a whole amazing world exists outside these walls that I cannot experience except through your machines. I have never been a man to be satisfied with living through others. Like my sister, I yearned to explore, learn, enjoy. I finally understand her anger and frustration…about three hundred years too late. Perhaps if I’d comprehended earlier, she wouldn’t have been susceptible to Rogan’s allure.”

  “You can’t change the past,” she argued.

  “No, but I can alter my future. And I must do so without you.”

  He closed his eyes and concentrated on Rogan’s study. In a sparkle of color, he materialized there. Darkness surged inside him once again, licking at his insides like the tongue of a horrible beast. He took a deep breath and pressed the air downward, forcing the evil to remain at bay. When he opened his eyes, he discovered Dante, the cat, lounging on the chair, his tail flicking aimlessly while his golden gaze regarded Damon with indifference.

  Breathless, Alexa charged into the room. She caught the edge of a bookcase to stop her momentum and shouted, “Stop! Don’t run from—”

  He closed his eyes again, this time transporting himself into the tower. She’d never reach him here—she likely did not even know the way. He paced, trying to determine his next course of action, wondering at what point Alexa would retreat to the mainland and abandon him so he could act without worrying about the consequences to her. A quarter of an hour later, however, he received his answer. Watching the ocean outside for any sign of her boat leaving the island, he heard her steps on the circular stairs behind him.

  When she reached the top, she collapsed on the floor, her lips parted halfway between a smile and a snarl.

  “You can’t get rid of me,” she said, panting, “so easily.”

  His rage spiked. He clenched his fists, pounding them against his sides. “Be clever, Alexa. Leave me while I search for the answers I seek. I do not wish to hurt you.”

  She pulled herself to her feet and, before he could stop her, threw herself into his arms.

  Need, pure and elemental, jolted him so that his anger instantly receded. He opened his mouth in surprise, and just as shockingly, she grabbed him by the neck and lifted her body until her mouth was on his. The longer they kissed, the harder her tongue battled with his for sensual dominance, the more the evil drained from him.

  “What are you doing to me?” he asked once he had the strength to pull away.

  She gazed into his eyes with an emotion he might have mistaken for love. “I’m saving you, you big lug. From a fate worse than death.”

  “Death is preferable to eternal entrapment.”

  “Maybe, but there has to be another way.”

  Without the magic, the tower room was cold and drafty. The ocean roared below them and the only light came from the stars and full moon outside the slatted windows. Damon held Alexa close, blocking her from the chill.

  “You see?” she asked.

  “See what? That you are the most stubborn woman in Christendom?”

  “Just Christendom?” she questioned. “Y
ou underestimate my bullheadedness.”

  “I have to find a way out, Alexa. You must know now that I cannot be your hotel ghost, remaining to entertain your guests and enhance the amount of coin in your purse.”

  She rolled her eyes at him as if he were a simpleton. “That plan went out the window the moment you touched me. Not the hotel. I still want that. But sharing you with others, keeping you captive? Never. I’ve proved I want to help you escape, but not by allowing you to turn evil. What type of life will you have on the outside if Rogan’s magic infects your soul?”

  Though it took all his strength, Damon pushed away from her. “Perhaps evil in my veins will help me do what needs to be done.”

  “Rogan is gone. Who will you exact revenge upon? His great-great-great-grandson? Be reasonable, Damon.”

  “There is no reason where there is magic.”

  She snared her bottom lip in her teeth and Damon could see her warring to find a logical reply. God, how this woman intrigued and excited him. Her emotions did not rule her, but she did not deny them, either.

  “You’re wrong,” she declared finally. “Rogan’s magic has rules and parameters. That’s why you can’t leave the castle the same way you left the painting. And if I’m right, when the evil threatens to overtake you, my touch alleviates the anger.”

  His body shook. God, he wanted her. His mouth dried with thirst for her. His belly ached with hunger. She fed the goodness in him. How or why he did not know, but in a flash, he thought back to the Gypsy woman and her prediction. Alexa Chandler had influenced his destiny. He’d be a fool not to listen to her now.

  “What do you propose?” he asked.

  Her smile lit her face like the dawn cracking over the horizon outside. “Give me the day. Don’t use the magic. Read the rest of Sarina’s diary. I promise, Damon. We’ll figure this out without sacrificing your soul.”

  She slid into his arms and Damon buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of her as her body imprinted its softness on every inch of his skin. Despite her pleas, he could make no promises. Not any he knew he could keep.

  “I’ll wait until nightfall, but no longer.”

  She took a deep breath and buoyed herself with a confidence he suspected was part of her makeup just as much as her red hair and green eyes. “Then by nightfall, you’ll be free. Without the evil magic. I’ll figure out a way or die trying.”

  23

  On the porch, Ben paced, allowing Catalina privacy while she prepared, even while he rubbed his anxious hands together and tried to ignore his watch. He’d witnessed many an ancient ceremony in Africa and a few in certain parts of Europe, but his knowledge and experience with voodoo and Santería were nil. Though he drove her to the shop where she’d purchased what she needed for the rite, the rest he’d left up to her. He trusted her instincts—and that shocked him most of all.

  On the surface, Catalina Reyes was the kind of woman he had no business messing with—strong willed, adventurous and boldly sexual. He couldn’t stop his brain—or more accurately, his heart—from comparing her to Mariah. Biggest difference so far was that Mariah would have split the minute she had the diary, just like she had with the statue in Istabul and the scroll in Luxor.

  Cat, on the other hand, had chosen to stay. Even when her friend had twisted emotional screws to lure her back to Florida, she’d resisted. She’d even dug into her seemingly uncomfortable past to perform the ceremony to help him find his father.

  On the way to the botánca, Cat had explained how she’d seen her grandmother perform the ritual, usually for people trying, on behalf of her Santería followers, to tap into lost bank accounts or find family heirlooms that had been stolen or misplaced. The Santería priestess had never, to Cat’s knowledge, used the process to find a missing person—but Cat believed that didn’t mean it couldn’t be done. Her grandfather, the voodoo practitioner, had once located a kidnapped child after performing a separate rite of his own. Unfortunately, magic that powerful was painful and bloody, so he rarely performed it. Cat guessed that by combining the two traditions, and throwing in a few things she’d learned as a paranormal researcher, she might pull from the cosmos some clue to finding Paschal.

  If Cat was willing, who was he to say no? If even the slightest chance existed that her magical mojo could help find his father, he wasn’t going to argue.

  While Cat got ready, Ben called the detective investigating Paschal’s disappearance. Other than verifying that the blood on the driveway did indeed belong to his father, the police had nothing. No activity on his bank accounts. No sightings around town. No ransom demands. With his permission, they’d tapped both his apartment phone and Paschal’s home phone, and no one had called. Ben’s cell hadn’t beeped, either. Whoever had Paschal didn’t want him for money.

  As each minute passed, Ben knew he’d go to any length to save his father—including trusting Catalina and the psychic powers she only barely trusted herself.

  He’d believe enough for both of them. In his travels, he’d seen odder doings than searching for missing loved ones using candles, crystals, herbs and the old, smelly leather jacket of the man who might—emphasis on “might”—have taken him.

  Cat opened the front door. “I’m ready.”

  From across the porch, he couldn’t see inside the house. With the door held close to her body, only her head was visible.

  A golden glow of candlelight created a halo effect that sapped his breath. Her black hair, worn loose and long, shined against the night. As he neared, he realized she’d painted symbols on her face.

  He reached out and touched the representation of a third eye on her forehead.

  “It represents the Sight,” she explained.

  He grinned. “I figured.”

  The moment burgeoned with tension. When she swung the door wide to allow him entrance, he understood why. She’d transformed the foyer into a lighted path with candles on either side of the staircase. She wore a scarf tied around her waist like a skirt, the fabric bright with slashes of burgundy, orange and pink that glowed against her bare legs and feet. Her blouse, twisted from the same material, bared her belly and cupped her breasts. Beads glistened from around her neck and dropped to her stomach. The charms tied around her ankles jingled when she walked.

  At the top of the stairs, Cat turned and pressed her hand flat against his chest.

  “I can’t guarantee this will work.”

  Ben laid his hand over hers, knowing she could feel the pulsing of his heartbeat. “I know.”

  “I haven’t—”

  He blocked her claim with his other hand, laying it flat over her lips. “Funny, but when we first met yesterday, you didn’t strike me as the insecure type.”

  With a roll of her eyes, she smiled shyly. “I’m confident about a lot of things, but not this. I’m not practiced.”

  “But you are motivated. I need you, Cat. My father needs you. And you need him to help your friend.”

  With a resolute nod, she took his hand and led him into his father’s study. In the center of the room, lit with candles on all sides, was a small table she’d dragged in from the guest room. On it lay the jacket, a book, a Texas map, a globe, a jewel-handled ceremonial knife, three thick ceramic bowls reeking of dried herbs and one empty bowl with odd carvings around the edge. Though versed in several ancient languages and hieroglyphics, Ben didn’t recognize the symbols.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  She took his hand and led him to the table. “A little Santería, a dash of voodoo.”

  He glanced around. “No live animals?”

  She gave him an annoyed push. “I’m trying to avoid that, thanks.”

  “But the blood is key,” he said, drawing on his scant knowledge of the two religions.

  She silenced him with a tired expression. “Like I don’t know?” Lifting the sharp athame, she pointed the knife at him for emphasis and he suspected her wicked smile wasn’t just for effect. “Trust me, when we need blood, we’ll
have it. Now, be quiet. I need you to concentrate on your father. Close your eyes and picture him. Picture the last time you spoke to him. Hear his voice in your ears. Inhale the scent of his cigar. Taste the flavor of his favorite wine.”

  Ben did as she asked, opening his eyes only briefly when she clicked on the CD player. Drums beat a haunting tattoo that echoed in the silence of the rest of the house. Chanting began, first from the CD, and then from Cat. The language, though foreign, rang with need. The timbre of her voice, deep and resonant, spoke of intense desire. So much so that his lower body tightened and he had to shift his stance.

  He struggled against his selfishness and redirected his attention to his father. Paschal Rousseau. Quick to laugh. Gentle. Cerebral. Images of his father barely visible behind a mound of old books popped into his head. Memory snapshots of Paschal throwing a few mismatched shirts and slacks into a suitcase and rushing out the door to catch a plane to some secret European location flashed in his mind. His father’s guttural chuckle rang in his ears, along with the sound of his incessant humming. Old music—tunes that might have been played on a lute or a harpsichord.

  As long as he kept his eyes shut, he managed to ignore the heat building in the room around him, in Catalina’s needful vocals and the desires she inspired.

  Then, she grew silent. The chanting on the CD continued, but though he sensed she was standing close by, Cat had stopped chanting, stopped moving. Stopped…breathing?

  He opened his eyes. She stood directly across from him, her hands pressed against both the jacket and the diary, her head arched back so that his gaze immediately fell upon her slim neck and generous breasts. He squeezed his eyes tight, conjuring images of his father again when a light laugh escaped her lips.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “I have him,” she replied.

  “You know where he is?”

  She inhaled deeply. “Give me the map.”

  He picked up the folded map as she tossed the jacket aside, her hands held out as if the vibrations of his father’s location remained on her palms. Moving the bowls and the knife aside, he spread the map on the table.