Cursed to Kill

by Claire Ashgrove

  Warm fingertips slid over his hips. The slightest scrape of too-short nails grazed his buttocks. He yielded to the pressure of her hands, rolling his hips forward and sliding his cock through her willing flesh. Ecstasy called to him. Begged him to join their bodies and ease the ache that filled them both.

  Cian held his breath and nudged the tip of himself inside her slick sheath. At the clench of warm, feminine heat, his heart seized, and breathing became impossible. He willed himself to wait, ordered his body to cooperate. But Miranda stripped him of control by thrusting her hips and taking him deep inside. Her low, throaty moan filled his ears.

  He wouldn’t last long. And had she been any other woman, not the one he had loved so many times and ways that they had surpassed all sense of shame, he would have been mortified at his lack of restraint. But she was Miranda, and she understood him sometimes better than he understood himself. That alone, filled holes his soul couldn’t define.

  They moved together in a frantic dance that spiraled them both into the exotic paradise they had created so many months ago. Miranda encouraging him with hard demanding strokes. Cian meeting her body’s requests with equally demanding thrusts. Pleasure built, mounted to intoxicating levels.

  Sweet Goddess.

  Ecstasy consumed Cian, bursting inside him like a maelstrom. He wound his arms around her petite body, gathering her close as his hips spasmed. Her name tore from his throat, the sound blending with her high-pitched keening, and he spilled himself inside her. Around his softening flesh, he felt the pulse of her orgasm. The clench of her inner walls milked him until he had nothing left to give, and he collapsed into her tender embrace. With his head on her shoulder, he pressed a tender kiss to the side of her neck and closed his eyes. Her fingertips trailed down the length of his spine, and her contented sigh swelled his heart to painful limits.

  “I’ve missed you too, Cian,” she murmured.

  Cian lifted a heavy arm to tuck the stray wisps of hair out of her face. “My sweet Miranda,” he whispered through his tender smile.

  Love her, yes. Soon he would be able to give her the words his body spoke but his curse forbade.

  Chapter Five

  Something was wrong. Cian knew it in the depths of his being, though he couldn’t place the immediate reason for the heavy weightiness in his limbs or the fog clouding his thoughts. He struggled to rise above the oppression, sensing he must somehow surface. Rise through the nightmare before it claimed him.

  His eyes opened to blood.

  Two long slash marks formed Xs down the length of the muscle in both his forearms. Crimson rivulets ran from the shallow cuts, across the backs of his hands, and dripped off his fingers onto Miranda’s living room floor. The marks of sacrifice. Human sacrifice.

  In his right hand, he held the fillet knife that had carved the ritualistic wounds. He stood less than five feet from her bedroom doorway.

  Miranda!

  Panic seized him, twisting his lungs into a tight knot and stopping his vile heart. If he had…

  The knife fell from his fingers, clattered against wooden floorboards. Afraid of what he would find, he bolted down the short hall and into her bedroom. On the opposite wall, light emitted from a tiny nightlight, casting a warm glow over her sprawled form. Her chest rose with steady, even breaths. Wisps of hair against her cheek stirred as she exhaled.

  Incapacitated by relief, Cian sagged against the doorframe. A fine sheen of moisture gathered in his eyes and blurred his vision. He had not harmed her. Not yet.

  But he had begun the ritual, and he hadn’t even been aware of his actions. Hadn’t felt the pricks of pain when he sliced through his own flesh. Damnation! He had been a fool to stay with her through the night while his dark spirit was so agitated. If he hadn’t awakened…

  Cian couldn’t complete the thought. Already his stomach churned, threatening to upturn the meager bits of burger he’d eaten much earlier. He was a danger to Miranda. More so than he had ever truly realized.

  No matter how the idea of not holding her in his arms until the sun peeked through her Venetian blinds made him ache, he couldn’t stay. He didn’t trust himself to overpower the darkness a second time, and it would surface again. The longer he stayed with Miranda, the more it craved death.

  He grabbed his clothes from the floor and backed out of the room, careful to keep his steps light, his motions slow. Waking her would make leaving impossible, and he must leave.

  He made his way to the bathroom and yanked his pants on. His shirt, however, he gathered in both hands and ripped the lightweight cotton in half. Wrapping both lacerations along his forearms, he staunched the flow of blood. Then, using a washcloth from her towel rack, Cian retraced his steps through the house, wiping up the evidence he’d left behind.

  The trail stopped in the kitchen at the sink. There, he shoved the cloth in his pants pocket and expelled a heavy breath. As he glanced over the bar into her living room, his gaze fell on the stack of papyrus. Salvation lay in that portion of his mother’s spell book. He hadn’t read that far, but he had absorbed enough to realize Miranda stumbled onto a full chapter in its entirety. It couldn’t remain here. Beyond the freedom the ritual offered, the power in those pages would draw his father. If it hadn’t already. Drandar would feel no such remorse or hesitation about snuffing out Miranda’s life.

  Gritting his teeth against the certain shock of contact, Cian pulled the cloth out of his pocket and hurried to Miranda’s coffee table. The dry terry served to limit the surge of power beneath his fingertips, but it did little to temper the effect. Energy smacked into Cian like a sledgehammer, nearly knocking him backward. He grimaced, biting back a vicious oath, and forced himself to hold on to the folder. Something sinister and unnamable inside him snarled in rage. The sound however, passed his lips as little more than a hiss.

  Determined to emerge victorious in the battle against his father’s blood, Cian gripped the precious document more tightly and stalked to the door. His hands tingled all the way down the stairs, through the shadowy aisles of Miranda’s bookstore. Outside, in the brisk early-autumn air, he allowed himself a moment to regroup. Leaning against the brick wall, he sucked in deep breaths and concentrated on steadying his pulse. Now, not only had he walked out on Miranda once again, but he had also stolen something worth thousands. When she woke, there’d be hell to pay.

  He took comfort in the knowledge there was no alternative. The faint hope that in two days he would be mortal and could devote himself to repairing the damage, eased the guilt of betrayal. Miranda deserved better than this. Better than him.

  Goddess above, he’d die trying to give that to her.

  Resolved to his purpose, he jogged to his truck and slipped inside. He tossed the folder onto the passenger’s seat, then keyed the engine and backed out of the lot.

  Thirty miles had never seemed so long. Each one like molasses, they crept past unendingly, until at last he sighted the glow from the twin lanterns on his front porch. Bright light beyond the bottom floor windows told him at least one of his siblings was still awake. Hopefully Rhiannon. She could heal these cuts and dig into their mother’s writings. He needed a hot shower and sleep. If sleep would come.

  Doubtful, given everything rattling around in his head.

  When he parked in the driveway, he reached for the file. This time, the power ebbed beneath his skin as opposed to slamming into him. No doubt, a result of his distance from Miranda. Still though, his fingers felt raw, as if he’d picked up a hot pan without protection.

  Protection…

  Shit!

  Cian dropped his head to the back of his seat and groaned. He had made love to Miranda without even asking if she was still on the pill. Surely she would be. She’d always been careful.

  It wasn’t the thought of a child that upset him. No, getting Miranda pregnant held a strange appeal. Rather, it was the thought of what kind of child he would sire. His seed was poisoned with hate. He couldn’t bring another incubus into this wor
ld.

  Spirits above, how could he be so foolish?

  Grumbling, Cian kicked open his door. He stalked to his front door in a fit of temper, aching for a physical outlet he could use to release the pent-up agitation. Right about now, he’d give everything he owned for his youngest brother, Taran, to show up so he could pound his fists into someone. It wouldn’t take much digging to find a reason Taran deserved a beating.

  The front door thumped into the wall, just as Rhiannon was starting up the staircase. She jumped, let out a squeak, and whipped around, her eyes wide, her mouth forming a dainty O. Cerulean blue eyes quickly scanned his bare chest before dropping to the rags wrapped around his forearms.

  “By the ancestors—you’ve killed!” she cried quietly.

  Cian couldn’t stop the scowl from settling into his forehead. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” With hesitant steps, she descended the four stairs. “Then what happened?”

  Sighing, Cian raked a hand through his hair. “It’s a long story. Care to help me heal them? I’ll explain everything.”

  ****

  “She has to be there.”

  Cian jerked around to face his brother, Dàire, whose auburn head was bent over their mother’s writings. “What?”

  “Hold still, damn it.” Rhiannon tugged on Cian’s arm, pulling it back into her lap. She dabbed the wound with another glob of chopped-up herb that made him wince.

  “I said, she has to be there for the ritual. Aren’t you lucky?” Dàire grinned like a loon, leaned back in the couch, and tossed long legs on Cian’s coffee table. “Scotland in autumn, the Standing Stones at midnight, pretty girl at your side...Ahh. Love is in the air.”

  Cian’s glower did nothing to curb his brother’s amusement at his expense. That shit-eating grin, however, tied Cian into frustrated knots. More and more it looked like he might have his physical outlet after all. Not with the troublemaker of the family, but with the one who didn’t know how to take anything seriously.

  “I’m glad you’re amused. I nearly killed Miranda tonight. This shit isn’t fun and games, Dàire.”

  “Easy,” Rhiannon murmured. “You’re breaking my concentration.”

  “Yeah, wouldn’t want to do that. You might end up with frogs growing out your forearms, man.” Dàire shook out his auburn hair and stretched like a cat, unmindful of the look of warning Rhiannon shot him as she dabbed another clump of mushed plant onto Cian’s arm.

  Cian heaved a sigh. This sucked, plain and simple. He hadn’t freed Miranda from the threat of danger by taking the papers as he’d hoped. No, according to Dàire, there was no escape for her. He had to have read the passage wrong. Please, let him be wrong.

  “What did it say, exactly?”

  Dàire folded his long legs back to the floor and leaned forward to pick up the papers. He thumped the top page with his knuckles. “The eight born from my womb, and that of another, one pure and untouched by evil, who has lifted these words from darkness and anointed them with power.” He dropped the papyrus on the table then reclined again, arms folded behind his head. “Don’t think it gets much clearer than that.”

  Son of a hellhound’s bitch. Cian ground his teeth together so hard he thought they might crack. How was he supposed to take Miranda to Scotland when he became more and more obsessed with the need to snuff out her life? Even if he could find a means of coping with that sick desire, after tonight, he doubted even groveling would convince her into taking an impromptu vacation. Certainly not once she discovered he had stolen her antique writings.

  In a highly unusual twist, Rhiannon sided against the sibling who was most like her twin and took pity on Cian. She glanced up from Cian’s wounds to frown at Dàire. “It’s late. Let’s discuss this over breakfast. Belen’s in New York. Why don’t you go phone him and ask him to meet us here at dawn? We have a lot to prepare for in a short amount of time.”

  More surprising, Dàire conceded without argument. His amused smirk, however, lingered as he weaved around the couch. He clapped a strong hand on Cian’s shoulder. “Glad it’s you, not me.”

  Cian’s frown settled firmly back into place. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His answer came with a noncommittal shrug. Chuckling, Dàire disappeared down the hall.

  Cian slunk down into his chair. “He’s getting to be as bad as Taran.”

  “No one can be as bad as Taran.” Rhiannon flashed a pretty grin. “Hold still. This is the last one.”

  Silent, he watched as his sister ran her fingertips down the length of his arm. Old word words tumbled off her lips in a whisper, the power of the arcane gathering close with each low syllable. Cian’s skin prickled like someone had just charged him full of static electricity. He shut his eyes, allowing the energy to consume him, wishing not for the first time he could be as gifted with magic as Rhiannon.

  If he were, maybe he could influence Miranda’s thoughts enough that she’d go along without a hassle.

  Sadly though, that was Dàire’s talent. Rhiannon healed; Dàire manipulated thoughts. And Cian…Well, Cian had just enough ability with all the aspects to be dangerous, but no true power.

  “All done.” Rolling her head on her shoulders to stretch her neck, Rhiannon sat up in her chair. “Now, you wanna tell me just exactly how you found yourself mid-sacrifice ritual?”

  “Not really.”

  She eyed him for a minute, her thoughtful expression reflecting truths that Cian had no intention of admitting. He’d told them about everything, except his feelings for Miranda. That disaster was his burden, not his siblings. Besides, Rhiannon wouldn’t rest if she thought there were wounds that needed healing. Before he could blink, she’d be nose-deep in his affairs and trying to fix everything. Sometimes, her compassion could be her greatest fault.

  “You know this isn’t going to be easy. Taran and Brigid will fight us every step of the way.”

  The dark children of their family. Though they hated each other, Taran and Brigid hated the idea of mortality more. Cian raked a weary hand through his tangled hair. “From what I can see, this doesn’t influence them. Mother broke up the final incantation into eight parts. One for each of us. They might have to participate, but no one is forcing them into anything else.”

  “Still if each ritual deals damage to Drandar, you can guarantee he’s going to come and exact revenge. Anyone who goes through with the cleansing will be in danger until he’s dead.”

  Another heavy ball of lead rolled around in Cian’s gut, colliding into all the others that had piled into an uncomfortable heap. Mortality would come with the price of their father’s wrath. He’d considered the fact, mulled it around, and cast it aside as necessary fallout. Hearing the logic made his predicament that much more damning.

  And his two siblings who enjoyed immortality, even with its dark calling, would fight those who wanted freedom every step of the way. They would condemn those who became mortal to an early grave, if they refused for long.

  Cian shook his head. “We’ll have to convince them.”

  Rhiannon’s blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “I think Dàire can handle that. He’s been itching for a way to get even with Taran for killing that French girl.”

  “Seriously? That was fifty years ago.”

  The intricate tattoo across her cheeks crinkled as her grin broadened. “Yes, but, from what I hear, the niece is just as pretty.”

  Groaning, Cian dropped his head into his hands. “They both know her?”

  “Dàire’s been looking out for her ever since.”

  “Shit. That’s just what we need.” Dàire on a humanitarian mission while Taran stalked his next victim. Dàire would drag in Isolde, and they’d have a family feud on their hands. “Talk some sense into him, will you?”

  She laughed, a pretty little sound, not unlike the music of the fae. “Believe me, I’m trying. But if Taran gives us too much difficulty, Dàire would be more than happy to help. And I don’t think I need to tell you what Isolde would
do.”

  No. He didn’t need to hear another account of the damage Isolde would inflict upon Taran. He’d witnessed it time enough.

  Rhiannon stood up, moved behind Cian’s chair, and gave his shoulders a squeeze. “Get some sleep. Belen will require energy from all of us. And you don’t have much to spare.”

  True. Cian had never felt so drained in all of his existence. Belen would support the endeavor, getting to the why would be the tricky part.

  Not to mention the last time Belen had been around Miranda, it had required all of Cian’s concentration to ward off Belen’s advances. And his advances were nothing Miranda would care to consider once the pleasure concluded. Belen didn’t kill. Everything else though, was fair game.

  Chapter Six

  Miranda knew she was alone before she ever opened her eyes. Empty and cold, her house’s atmosphere trumpeted Cian’s abandonment even as she rolled over to witness his empty pillow. Feel the cold mattress where he had lain.

  A sigh escaped from the depths of her being, and she flopped onto her back to stare at the ceiling. During the night, a chill had settled into the old house, and that frostiness seeped beneath her skin. She huddled under the blankets, trying to escape, but even the heavy down comforter couldn’t thaw the bone-deep ice of loneliness.

  She had been a fool to believe I’ve missed you meant something. At least something beyond a means of obtaining momentary gratification. If Cian had really missed her he would have come around sooner. Picked up the phone. Done something other than avoid her. He hadn’t, and though she had realized that on some level, an even deeper level convinced her she didn’t need him to care. She needed only the momentary closeness. The pleasure that a night with Cian offered.

  She’d gotten that, no question about it. But morning made it impossible to deny the price it cost.

  A tear whispered down her cheek, and Miranda dashed it away with the back of her hand. No tears. She’d made the call to let him into her bed, knew the possible ramifications, and she wouldn’t cry because she’d been naive enough to think maybe this time would be different. Naivety was for children, and at twenty-eight, she’d surpassed child long ago.