by Julie Leto
She was not going to die like this. Not that succumbing to a power-hungry madman wouldn’t be the perfect capper to the worst couple of weeks of her life. First, she’d had to kowtow to Hector Velez, who’d wrecked her reputation and threatened to burn her alive. Then she’d had to run away from a former lover who’d lured her into this mess from the beginning. And after she’d stolen a rare Gypsy artifact that should have bought her out of all her troubles, she’d ended up with an arrogant, cold-as-ice opportunist who had taken the detritus of her emotions and compacted it into a tiny, insignificant square of scrap.
Blood from her wound leaked down her arm as she thought about Rafe. Rafe, who’d seduced her. Who’d wanted her so desperately when he’d been infected by this dark and evil magic but, in the end, couldn’t love her. How dared he treat her no better than he might a common whore? Who the hell did he think he was?
Suddenly, the blue light that had held her as if encased in ice began to melt—not to the consistency of water, but to the viscous texture of hot wax. It clung to her insides, solidifying and edifying her until she could stand against Pryce’s attack. She grabbed the blade and, though her hand was sliced open, she felt no pain. Instead, she imagined Farrow dropping to his knees in subservience, and seconds later he complied.
Her eyes seared with heat. She gulped in great breaths and pushed the air past her thickened trachea and into her heaving lungs. The more she inhaled, the more aware she was of the rush of blood pumping through her veins—the more she remembered how Rafe had spurned her. He hadn’t even faced her after he’d sent her away. He had not deigned to acknowledge how she’d plumbed the depths of her psyche in order to find the slit in the armor she’d erected around her heart. She’d broken down her barriers, opened herself up to ultimate rejection—which was precisely what she’d gotten.
“You will not hurt me,” she said to Farrow, her voice echoing as if nothing existed inside her skull except pure, white heat. He released the sword and dropped to the ground, his hands digging into the sand, sweat pouring from his face and soaking his back. Her gaze darted to the men he’d brought with him—the ones who had dared to grab her, paw her, manhandle her. Suddenly they were on their knees, too, and their eyes bulged and their faces turned bloodred.
Mariah was in control of the magic—and she would finally have her revenge.
On Pryce.
On Ben.
On Rafe.
***
Rafe crumpled to the ground. Pain scorched through him as his insides attempted to burn their way out of his body. He howled, barely aware of the others standing around him—Ben holding Cat back, Paxton frozen in place and Gemma inching her way closer. He attempted to push her away, but he no longer had the power. After a flash of blinding light, total darkness engulfed him.
Light taps on his face brought him back to consciousness. He blinked to find Cat standing over him, smiling broadly.
“Welcome to the land of the living,” she said.
His neck ached, but he managed to turn and see his brother and his nephew standing over him, their expressions of happiness just as bright as Cat’s. He relaxed, and his head hit the ground with a thump. A painful thump.
“Ow,” he said.
“Yeah,” Cat said wryly. “You’re going to have to be a little more careful about things like pain now. You’re no longer invulnerable to little things like, you know, dying. You’re just human like the rest of us.”
“But I can’t ...”
Ben reached down, offering his hand, which Rafe took. His nephew pulled him up, though Rafe wavered in a flux of dizziness until Paxton braced him on the shoulders and his equilibrium returned.
“You are alive again,” Paxton assured him. “Mariah’s confession must have had a delayed reaction.”
“I don’t think it was Mariah’s fault,” Cat snapped.
Ben turned to argue, but Rafe stopped him with an unsteady hand on his shoulder. “Catalina is right. I was so engulfed by my guilt and grief over the fate of my wife and the Gypsy villagers”—he gestured to the mosaic—“I could not open my heart and accept Mariah’s love any more than I could return it. But I do love her—desperately. I cannot allow another woman I worship to die because of me. If Farrow wants the stone, I shall bring it to him. We’ll have to find another way to stop his quest for power—one that won’t cost Mariah her life.”
They turned to the table where Paxton had left the stone after Mariah had left, but it was gone.
And so was Gemma Von Roan.
***
“You want the stone?” Mariah shouted at Pryce, who was now prone on the ground, his legs soaked by the waves in the lagoon, which had swelled in her fury. He’d crawled on his elbows to her feet, attempting to snatch at her with feeble hands, but she kicked sand in his face, laughed and backed away.
She now held the sword by its handle. The gold fused around her hand. The metal was red-hot, but the burn invigorated her and sealed her wounds. She possessed the magic now. Her insides writhed with the dark power of pure anger and rage. Rafe had despised the sensation, but Mariah had never felt so strong and invulnerable.
And she wanted more.
“I call to the stone,” she shouted.
In the distance, she heard a feminine scream and a thrashing in the palmettos. She expected someone to spill onto the beach with the Valoren marker, but no one came.
How dared the magic defy her?
“I call Rafe Forsyth!”
And suddenly he was there.
The violet light burning on the blade and hilt of the sword flickered.
“Mariah,” he said, clutching his stomach and doubling over.
She buoyed the sword with both hands and remembered precisely how she’d felt when he’d turned his back on her. Betrayed. Enraged.
“Where’s the stone?” she asked, her voice shrill to her own ears.
“Gone,” Rafe replied, attempting to look up at her even as he fought against dry heaves. “I apologize ... for using the magic ... to transport you. The aftermath is sickening.”
Again, the sword light dimmed, and Mariah battled against the darkness inside her to hurry to Rafe’s side. Then Farrow clutched her ankle, and the three men who had taken her hostage climbed to their knees.
“No!” she shouted, and the four of them were blasted back into the water and disappeared beneath the surface.
“Mariah, stop,” Rafe begged her, taking in a great gulp of air.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said with a hiss. The glow on the sword brightened, and the blackness inside her thickened again. “You had your chance to be a part of my life. To be my life. And you threw it away.”
“No,” he said sternly, forcing himself to stand. “I was just as I have been since you rescued me, behind the times. I love you, Mariah. And because of that love, I’m human.” He reached out for her, but she blocked him with the sword, swiping the blade so that it slashed across his hand. He winced, and blood spurted from the wound. “I’m alive, Mariah. I’m flesh and blood. I am no longer trapped in that cursed stone.”
Her throat constricted, and the sword suddenly grew heavy in her hand. Even in the moonlight, she watched red streaks slither down his arm. She looked down at her own hand, where blood had caked and dried from the wound Farrow had given her, only he’d jabbed her with the sword, injecting her with magic that had instantly invaded her soul and had given her the power to protect herself. Protect her heart.
“That’s impossible,” she said. “I bared my soul to you. Nothing happened.”
Rafe took a step forward, but Mariah raised the sword higher to keep him at bay. The thought of his touch repulsed her, and yet made her ache for him at the same time. She’d given him everything she had—heart, soul and body—and he’d spurned her. She could never allow a man to harm her again.
Especially not Rafe.
Never Rafe.
She’d loved him.
So deeply.
Deeper than any cut
.
More destructively than any wound.
She could no longer keep the sword raised. The blade thudded to the sand as her brain swam with dizzying images of light and dark. A split second later, she felt strong hands on her arms and, in a haze, watched mesmerizing silver eyes come closer and closer until lips crashed onto hers in a kiss that sapped the last of her resistance.
His love injected into her like pure adrenaline. Whatever evil sludge had occupied her body was zapped away by the electric need now stirring in her veins, making her sizzle from the inside out. She speared her hands into Rafe’s hair. Her tongue and his battled and mated and pleasured until she felt certain she would combust if he did not strip her down and make love to her right then and there.
Splashing noises interrupted them. They flew apart to see Farrow Pryce and his men coughing and flailing, then dropping down beneath the surface of the shallow lagoon as if a creature had snagged them by the ankles and pulled them down.
“What’s happening?” Mariah’s vision wavered as her mind and body throbbed with an undeniable need to be with Rafe, now and forever.
“I don’t know.”
Rafe grabbed the sword, but the color had drained from the metal. It was nothing but sparkling gold and steel. Even the fire opal in the center of the handle had dulled to darkest red. And yet the lagoon seemed to have solidified. The waves stopped mid-roll, and when Rafe tried to enter the water to rescue the men, his foot became encased as if in ice.
Mariah grabbed his aim and attempted to pull him free.
Muffled screams and pounding were barely audible over the sudden swirl of the trees and bushes around them. A chill dusted over the icy surface, making her teeth chatter.
“They’re drowning,” she said, surprised that she cared. Farrow had tried to kill her. Twice. The men who obeyed him had treated her like a punching bag. Had Rafe not appeared when she called him, she might have murdered the men herself. But she wasn’t doing this.
Rogan’s magic was responsible, but she had no idea where it was coming from.
She continued to pull on Rafe’s arm, trying to free him, but not daring to enter the water herself. The seconds ticked by in slow motion, and only after she realized that the men below the surface had stopped struggling did she notice someone standing on the other side of the lagoon, her hands gripping Rogan’s marker until her fingers bled.
The fire opal within the center of the stone blazed and her eyes—Gemma’s eyes—matched the stone in fiery glow.
“Gemma!” Mariah shouted. “You’re killing them!”
Suddenly the water unfroze. Rafe nearly tumbled into the lagoon, but Mariah tugged him free. They stumbled onto the beach, but by the time they stood, Gemma was gone.
Four bodies floated to the surface of the lagoon. One of them was Farrow Pryce’s.
30
“We have to stop her,” Rafe said, but Mariah hung on tighter, refusing to let him leave just yet. The shock of realizing that four men had fought for their lives only yards from where she stood quelled the lust that had spiked through her, but she still could not bear to let him go.
“We can’t,” Mariah said, her voice husky, as if she’d been screaming for hours. Her temples pounded and her stomach roiled as if she’d just magically been transported here from Valoren itself, yet she summoned the strength to hold him in place. “It’s too late.”
She didn’t have to turn around to know that Pryce and his men were dead. Gemma had held them beneath the surface until they’d stopped moving. Still, when Rafe insisted on dragging them to the shore, she did not stop him. She even assessed whether any of them would have benefited from CPR.
None would have—which worked out for the best. The thought of pressing her lips to Farrow Pryce’s mouth to breathe life into him made her drop to the sand and will the contents of her stomach to remain in place.
She should have mourned the dead men, no matter what they’d done. But she saved her grief for Gemma. She’d have to live with her actions—with what Mariah had helped her do. Infected by the magic, she’d thrown Pryce and his men into the lagoon, giving Gemma the perfect means to commit cold-blooded murder.
Rafe, soaking wet, dropped onto the beach beside her. Her gaze instantly went to the streaks of red on his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her fingers grazing over where she’d cut him.
“I’ll live,” he replied, his smile so gentle and brimming with love, she finally released the emotions she was trying so hard to keep inside.
More powerful than any curse, Rafe opened his arms, and she immediately fell into him. They’d deal with the death and destruction later. Right now, she had to concentrate on life.
Her life, reclaimed. Rafe’s life, renewed. Her love had freed him. And his love had saved her. Now they just had to figure out how to build a life together—or, possibly, how to survive a lifetime apart.
“Now I know what you felt when the magic invaded you,” she admitted. “It was impossible to fight. Not that I tried very hard. I was so angry.”
“Angrier than Pryce,” he said, sparing the man’s corpse a rueful glance over her shoulder. “The rage allowed you to take the sword and its magic from him. Had he known what you’d just been through, he might not have attempted to hurt you.”
“I’d never felt so ...”
She grimaced, but Rafe took her chin and forced her to look at him, then brushed away the residual effects of the magic with a kiss so real, so invigorating, she thought she might lose herself in him for eternity. Not that this would be a bad thing. In fact, blending her soul with Rafe’s until the end of time suddenly seemed like a perfect plan.
Shouts and the crashing of bodies through the underbrush tore them away from each other in time to see Ben and Cat spill out onto the crescent-shaped shore of the lagoon. Soon after, Paschal appeared. They smiled when they saw Rafe and Mariah alive and entwined on the sand, but all three stopped short at the bodies a few yards away.
“What happened?” Cat asked.
Mariah leaned into Rafe, closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound of his heart beating in her ear while he recounted how Pryce had cut her with the sword while it was gleaming with magic, and how her anger, more powerful than his, had allowed her to usurp the weapon and hold him at bay. Rafe told them about how Mariah had summoned him, how he’d professed his love and broken the curse—for both of them.
“Gemma stole the stone,” Cat told them.
“We know. I tried to call it here,” Mariah explained. “But she must have already had some control, because she fought me. The magic is like venom. She must have been furious, and her anger fed the magic. I’d tossed Pryce and his men into the lagoon when they attacked, and Gemma froze the surface until they drowned. There wasn’t anything we could do.”
Paschal dropped to his knees. Mariah knew Ben’s father had counted Gemma as an ally, if not a friend. But she’d killed in cold blood. Magic or not, the act reinforced what they’d all wanted to deny: She was Rogan’s blood heir—in every way.
Mariah did not argue when Ben suggested that Cat and Mariah return with Paschal to the castle. Only after she had the older man ensconced in the library with a glass of brandy and Cat at his side did Mariah wander into the great hall to wait for Rafe’s return.
At first, she tried to ignore the space around the fireplace, but the mosaic glittered under the lights, making it impossible to look away. Before she’d poured her heart out to him—standing right in front of those tiled images—he’d shared jagged pieces of his past with her, slivers of his daily life. She spotted the small, dark house near the mountains, where he’d lived with Irika and his son. Had Rogan never interfered in Valoren, Rafe might have grown old and gray there, never knowing that a woman existed in his future who would love him desperately, despite her heavy emotional baggage.
She shivered and suddenly craved a shower—if someone had invented one that worked from the inside out. Yet she knew that when Rafe returned and wra
pped her in his arms again, the effect would be just as cleansing. She took her time, studying the faces of the people in the mosaic, trying to imagine what Rafe’s life had been like centuries ago, when he finally slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her close.
He smelled of sweat and seawater, a combination she suddenly found very mortal, very human and very alluring.
“Ben has alerted an organization called the coast guard,” he explained. “He reported a boat in trouble and men in the water. He says when they arrive, he’ll claim we tried to rescue them, but they’d drowned.”
Mariah sighed, “It’s a more believable story than trying to convince them that a woman with a magic rock froze the surface of the lagoon in eighty-degree Florida weather. Did you check on Paschal?”
His voice dipped with sadness. “He’s deeply disturbed about Gemma’s actions.”
She tilted her head to the side and reveled in the way he nuzzled her neck. “As much as he didn’t trust her, I don’t think he ever expected she’d kill. Those men were no threat to us.”
“You don’t know that,” Rafe said. “I was mortal, and you were no longer infected by the magic. For all we know, she saved our lives.”
“That’s an interesting spin,” she said, exhausted.
“She was Rogan’s heir. Her bloodlines led her to a darkness she could not resist. I do not wish to give her credit for what she did. She’ll have much to account for at some point. But it is her cross to bear, not yours.”
Mariah hooked her hands behind Rafe’s back, just in case he got any big ideas about trying to let her go. “She was infected by the magic. Just like I was. Just like Farrow was.”
“Farrow chose to use the magic. He sought its secrets and paid the price. You defeated him, and the sword is now back in our possession.”
“Yeah, well, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” she said wryly. “The poor whacker didn’t know that you’d just broken my heart or he never would have messed with me.”