The Brothers Bernaux [01] Raisonne Curse

by Rinda Elliott

  “That was our father.”

  Elita jumped when Pryor’s hand moved past her head to point to the man she’d been staring at. “He looks just like you.”

  “Wait until you meet Mercer and Wyatt. They look like our uncles. In every generation, there have been three boys born to one brother.”

  “You must have strong family genes.” She turned toward him, accepted the tall, cold glass of iced tea.

  “We do.”

  “So, where’s the rest of your family then?” She waved a hand over the walls. “With this many people and this big house, I would have expected a houseful.”

  This time, he didn’t grin, just offered a small, sad smile, one that tore into her heart because it reminded her so much of her Ma’man’s expression when she was thinking of her daughters.

  “We have a few cousins left but they moved away from the area years ago. The rest haven’t made it through various disasters—health and weather. It’s just Mercer, Wyatt and me now. I’m here most of the time. They run their businesses from here, but go out of town once a month.”

  “So you stay here and paint the outside of the house?”

  “That and a few other things.”

  She sipped the tea, and smiled when she found it didn’t taste like the usual sugar water tea folks preferred around here. It was lightly sweet, just the way she liked it. She switched the glass to her other hand and wiped the now wet one on her shorts. “So you don’t want to wait for your brothers to try and break this curse?”

  He shook his head. “We’ll try one on our own, but it’s possible it won’t work without them.”

  “Thank you. For helping me.” She crossed her fingers behind her thigh before sending out a silent wish that her accidents didn’t hurt this gorgeous old home or the even more striking man about to help her.

  “You’re welcome. Come into the kitchen.” He suddenly chuckled, a low sexy sound that made her shiver.

  “What?” she asked.

  “We’ll try a hex breaker that doesn’t require nakedness first.”

  She choked on a sip of tea. “First?”

  He threw her a heavy-lidded glance over his tattooed shoulder. “Yeah. First.”

  Pryor led her into the kitchen and opened the back door to let Moochon out. The screen squeaked and he grimaced. Needed to fix that. He turned and smiled when her mouth fell open as she took in their crazy kitchen. Crazy, because it held all the modern luxuries of a new house, while the rest of their home reeked with outdated décor.

  “Wyatt designed it,” he said.

  She turned a full circle. “I could live in here.” She walked to the six-foot island in the middle of the room, set down her tea, and ran her hands over the dark granite counter top. “This thing has an indoor grill.” She leaned over, twisted her neck to look up. “Nice big ventilation hood.”

  He nodded, trying not to eye her pretty, round backside in that position. He failed. “Wyatt designs kitchens and needed pictures for his website. It’s ridiculous, really, since we don’t cook much. Don’t even have all the cabinets filled.” He pointed toward a hallway next to the refrigerator. “We built a room down that hall and off the house a bit. It has all the supplies we’ll need for the reversal spell.”

  She followed him, mumbling about how fast she’d have the cabinets filled before she broke off, her gaze going around the new area. He wondered what she thought about what Wyatt had dubbed the woo woo room. It was the size of a small bedroom and the walls were lined with cabinets and shelves filled with jars of herbs and other supplies. One entire shelf held a collection of old oil lamps and other crap collected over the years. It was really kind of a jumbled mess. Except for the clear top of the table he’d built and stored in here. Their washer and dryer were in this room too, so he walked toward the pile of clean, unfolded clothes on the top of the dryer.

  “This table doesn’t seem to belong here.”

  He turned to find Elita running her hand along the top of it. He smiled. “It doesn’t. I moved it in here temporarily after I finished it. Well, it was supposed to be temporary, but it has just the right height for mixing spells, so it might stay.”

  “It’s lovely. Rustic. You made it?”

  He nodded. “It’s a reclaimed barn wood table. I like recycling from old homes and barns. Some of the most beautiful wood comes from them.”

  “It would be a shame to mess up this surface.” She turned, her eyebrow lifting as she took in the recliner and neck-grooved sink. “Who’s the beautician?”

  “Head washes work on a lot of spells, so we installed this to make them easier.” He grabbed a black T-shirt and pulled it on, thinking it would be better if he touched her while fully clothed. Then he plucked a bottle of conditioner off the shelf and poured a generous amount into a bowl. He added a lot of salt, enough to make a thick paste then poured in a few oils, leaving his favorite for last because he loved the fragrance of rosemary.

  “What do I do? Wash my hair with that?”

  He shook his head. “You could, but I’m the one with the magic, remember?”

  “So, I lie back and you rub that into my hair?”

  “I have to make sure your scalp is completely covered as the magic flows from my hands. When I’m sure it’s everywhere, we let it sit. It won’t be comfortable, but twenty minutes or so should do it.”

  She nodded, bit her lip. His big shirt draped her body like a shroud, emphasizing how much smaller she was. Small, but wonderfully curvy. He liked her wearing his clothes. Really liked it. And it was that, rather than the knowledge that she wore no bra, that made his body stir. He turned from her and willed the ridge in his jeans down. Last thing she needed was him poking her with that in the salon recliner.

  She winced when she stretched out onto her back.

  “You can turn on your side. I’ll keep the water out of your face.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. It’s just that first touch, you know?”

  In that chair, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about her seeing his physical reaction to her. Her face was level with his problem and the image of her turning her head and unbuttoning his jeans nearly sent him to his knees.

  Down, boy. Apparently, it’s been a little too long since you got laid.

  Knowing that touching her was going to hurt his self-control, Pryor filled his hands with the mix and leaned over her to thread his fingers into her wet hair. He held his breath as he massaged it in deep, making sure to cover every centimeter of her scalp, then he nearly groaned when she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. Magic tingled in his forearms, traveled through his hands and into his fingers before sliding into her. He had to close his eyes for a second as the intensity, the heat, flowed through them. He’d done this for many people in the past and never, ever, had his magic felt like flat out sex. On his side anyway. Unfortunately, it sometimes affected those under his hands. His gaze locked on her soft, full lips.

  She languidly opened her eyes, fixed that startling, light-eyed gaze on him and stared as he slowly rubbed the salt-conditioner every place he could. He went over the same areas several times—just to make sure, he told himself. But the truth was he wanted to touch her, wanted to stroke her long, elegant neck and cup her delicate shoulders in his hands. He wanted to see if her breasts felt as soft as they looked.

  They stared at each other as these thoughts ran through his mind, and when her eyes narrowed, he worried she could read him, could see the stark, naked image he had of her…of them both. He’d never wanted to sink inside a woman as badly as he did her. Wanted to crawl on top of her and nestle inside her body as she exposed that gorgeous neck to his mouth. He would suck on it, lick her skin…maybe bite.

  He did groan then. Couldn’t stop it.

  “Is it all the way in?” she whispered.

  His eyes flew open wide. “Huh?”

  The corner of her mouth tilted up. “The salty goo you’re rubbing into my hair. Is it all the way in?”

 
He straightened, heat pooling at base of his spine. Pryor was so wrapped up in the fantasy image, he couldn’t think straight enough to answer her. Standing there, drying “goo” on his upraised hands, he breathed hard and ran his gaze down to her breasts, knowing they were free under his shirt—that the soft, worn material would slide over them if he put his hands there.

  “Pryor?”

  He took a step back. Then another. “Yes. It’s all the way in.” The gruff, husky tone to his voice couldn’t be helped. “Just lie there and I’ll go rinse my hands in the kitchen. This one is full of paintbrushes. The paste needs to stay on your hair a little while.”

  She nodded, eyes still wide as if she had been reading his thoughts. He turned and strode from the room. Fast. His hands actually trembled from the effort it took not to slide them under that shirt. He felt this crazy sort of primitive joy, seeing his clothes on her body and that made him feel like a fool. A lust-crazed Neanderthal of a fool. Damn. The woman had come to him for help and he wanted to help her, he had to help her, but he wanted to help himself. To her.

  This wasn’t like him at all. He usually preferred a slow build-up. Anticipation. This was a flat-out, hell-bent, let’s get to it sort of thing going on in his body.

  The cold water snapped his attention to his hands as he rinsed the gritty solution from between his fingers. He had no business thinking about her that way, not when she’d come here for help.

  Pryor grabbed a soft dishtowel and dried his hands as he slowly walked back into the small room with her. She was still stretched out. Vulnerable.

  Like an offering.

  Frowning, he turned back into the kitchen and leaned on the wall, closing his eyes. An offering? What the hell was wrong with him? He touched his stomach, alarmed by the dark gathering emotion there, by the overwhelming need he felt to take what was his.

  What was his?

  Straightening, he narrowed his eyes, cocked his head and sure enough, some of the whispers began to make sense.

  Take the woman.

  She is yours.

  Alarmed, he cleared his throat and called out, “Elita? Just let it rest there a few minutes. I’m going to call one of my brothers and see if he can get home sooner.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is it itching? Hurting you in any way?”

  “No. Feels like it’s sucking all the moisture from my head, but I can handle it. Are you sure this is going to help with the curse? It seems…too easy.”

  Pryor stared at the red color of his palms where the magic had seeped from his skin. It would blister tonight. But that wouldn’t be the worst of his payback for releasing it from her. “It’s not easy. Trust me.”

  He bit down on his tongue and cursed silently as he walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He paced up and down the hall twice before taking out his phone and carrying it all the way into the parlor. He barely noticed the highly uncomfortable antiques in this rarely used room anymore.

  He dialed Wyatt. His older brother kept a small apartment in Chicago because most of his clients were in that area. He only stayed in it a week at a time. Two weeks was as long as he, or any of the brothers, could safely be away from the water, so they always played it safe. And one of them always had to be here. No matter what. Wyatt had only been gone a little over twenty-four hours, Mercer three days.

  “Hey, Wyatt, think you can close things down earlier and come home?”

  “Gettin’ that itch again, little brother?” Wyatt’s voice, laced with that ever-present wry amusement, rumbled over the line. He’d paid a nasty magic price at an early age and his voice had never recovered completely from the severity of a scalded throat. “Wanna use my apartment?”

  “We have company. Mercer didn’t call you?”

  “He did. Doesn’t mean I answered.”

  Mercer and Wyatt butted heads often, mostly because Mercer never got past his oldest brother need to boss both of them around. A huge part of that came from them losing their father so early. It sometimes annoyed Pryor, but he mostly brushed it off. Wyatt, however, got pissed. “One of the Raisonne women came for help.”

  “I’ve heard about that curse.”

  “Turns out it’s one of Rousalard’s.”

  “I’d warn you not to mess with that ugly magic until Mercer and I can be there but I know my little brother. Already tried, eh?”

  “Just a head wash so far.” Pryor rubbed his eyes, then winced when he caught a stray bit of salt in one. “But something else is happening here. The house is waking and though she walked in alone, she isn’t alone.”

  There was a long silence on the other end. “I can be there tonight.”

  “Good. It’s gonna take all three of us and it’s not gonna be pleasant.”

  “Never is, Pryor. Never is.”

  “Call Mercer and see if he can get in tonight too.” Pryor flipped the phone closed and turned to find Elita hovering in the doorway, biting her lip. The fast-drying salt paste had turned her hair into a clump that leaned heavily to one side.

  “What do you mean it’s not going to be pleasant?” She lifted one hand to hold up her hair.

  Pryor opened his mouth to lie and found he couldn’t. Not to her. And he didn’t know why. He held out his hands. “There is always a payback for using magic.”

  She gasped and reached for his right hand, only to hover her fingers over the raw skin. “It burned your hands?”

  He nodded.

  She closed her eyes. “Nothing ever comes easy, does it?” Opening them, she stared at his hands, shook her head. “I’ll rinse this out of my hair myself and we’re done.”

  “You can’t leave yet. I sincerely doubt this was enough to break the curse, even though I had to give it a shot.” He had no choice, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “I don’t care. I didn’t know it would hurt you.”

  “What about your cousins? Your grandmother? Hell, I remember being a kid and listening to the old men gossip about the Raisonne Curse.” He finished her earlier move and took her hand, ignoring the pain. “Let me help you.”

  She bit her lip, turned his hand palm-up in hers and stared at the fiery red skin. “Will it help if we wait for your brothers?”

  “It would.” Though, he had a strong gut feeling they couldn’t wait that long if his brothers couldn’t get in that night.

  As the thought passed through his mind, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He glanced over his shoulder and caught what looked like a shadow scurrying around the corner.

  “Pryor?”

  He turned back to her, gut churning at the utter wrongness, the heavy air it left.

  “Did you see that thing too?” she whispered.

  “How long have you been able to?”

  “Weeks.” She shivered.

  “I saw it. Don’t know what it is because I haven’t seen one before.” His tone was low, soft. “It tails you like a detached shadow.”

  “I sometimes think it’s something from me. That it wove through me and pulled out the bad parts.”

  “That maybe it’s some kind of gathering of your own negative energy?” The corner of his mouth turned up. “It’s not.”

  “You don’t know.” She shook her head. “I’ve got a lot of resentment that built up over the years. Ma’man Raisonne misses her daughter, my mother. But I don’t. I never have. Maybe if she’d stayed the way she was when I was a kid…”

  He didn’t feel he should ask, but couldn’t stop himself. “What do you mean?”

  “In the months before that truck came out of nowhere and hit her, she’d lost everything we owned and had been reduced to begging for money. I know the curse made things hard for her, but she had this air of angry self-pity that made her miserable to be with. My feelings toward her have the same dark sensation as this thing. It scares me.”

  He turned back to the doorway. “I hate to worry you, but I think maybe you have every right to be. Let’s rinse your hair.”

  “I can rinse it m
yself. I really can’t let you use your hands.”

  He waved them in the air. “Magic, remember?” The more he touched her, the more he could absorb the curse.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  He grinned. “Elita, this isn’t as bad as it looks and the cool water will soothe the burns.”

  She looked skeptical, but finally nodded. He could feel her guilt like heat coming off her skin.

  Still, rinsing the dried wash from her hair took some time and effort and it just about killed the raw skin of his palms. Touching her more than made up for it. He often marveled over the level of trust people gave him and his brothers when it came to curse removals, and this time was no different. Elita stretched her neck back over the basin, baring that smooth, silky looking throat and before he knew what was happening, the whispers increased in volume. He kept running his fingers through her hair, but he glanced around expecting to see actual family ghosts hovering over his shoulders. When he turned back, her eyes were open and zeroed in on him.

  “You have a noisy house.”

  “Been some time since they were this talkative.” The power flowing from his hands burned, but he kept them steady.

  “So, you think they’re reacting to me?”

  He nodded. “The fact that you can hear them is the confusing part. Only a Bernaux is supposed to be able to.”

  “I don’t think that applies here. I’ve been hearing and seeing things for weeks—around the time the smudge man showed up.” She shuddered.

  “Smudge man?” He caught a rivulet of water with his thumb before it could run into her eye.

  “That’s what I named him. When I don’t think he’s a part of me, I think maybe he’s like a stain of something bad left behind. You know, like that last, stubborn smudge you can’t get out of the carpet? It’s a less scary description than ‘evil spirit,’ wouldn’t you say?”

  “Not sure I agree.” He grinned and ran his finger along her hairline and felt no gritty residue, so after one last rinse with warm water, he snagged a clean towel from the shelf next to him and, ignoring the pain in his hands, wrapped it around her head. “All done.”